


Silver and Cold

by superhoney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Creature Dean, DCBB 2018, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge, Hunter Castiel, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Dorothy Baum/Charlie Bradbury, Minor Injuries, Minor Sarah Blake/Sam Winchester, Mystery, Non-Penetrative Sex, Past Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Recluse Dean, Religious Themes, Small Towns, Switching, Tragic Backstory and Resulting Nightmares, Trapped/Isolated Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-20 18:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 64,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16142864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superhoney/pseuds/superhoney
Summary: The death of a young man in an apparent animal attack brings hunter Cas Novak to the small town of Sydnam, Maine. It doesn’t take long for him to realize he’s tracking a werewolf, but discovering the killer’s identity is no easy task. All signs point towards Dean Winchester, a lonely recluse who lives in the middle of the woods and whose antagonistic behaviour does little to lessen Cas’ suspicions.As the investigation drags on, their mutual distrust gives way to a wary alliance. Cas’ instincts warn him that Dean is hiding something, but as he uncovers the man beneath the mystery, his professional interest becomes far more personal. Praying his faith in Dean isn’t misplaced, Cas races to catch the killer before the next full moon rises and another life is abruptly cut short.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am thrilled to present this year's entry for the Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge!
> 
> First and foremost, thank you to my incredible artist, [whichstiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichstiel). I am beyond blessed to have gotten this chance to work with you, and the collaborative process has been an absolute joy. Thank you for going above and beyond the challenge requirements and making so many perfect pieces for my humble story. Please make sure to check out the art masterpost on [tumblr](https://whichstiel.tumblr.com/post/178663279025/this-year-i-signed-up-for-the-2018-deancas-big) or [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16163192) and leave some love for the amazing artwork.
> 
> Thank you also to Anna, for reading this over for me and leaving me the best reactions. To Diamond, for reading the early parts and holding my hand the rest of the way through, and to the rest of the chat for endless support and enthusiasm.
> 
> Thank you also to muse and Jojo for making the DCBB such a wonderful experience for all the artists and authors involved. Your work is incredibly valuable, and I appreciate it more than words can say.
> 
> Additional warnings: referenced past child abandonment, referenced past demonic possession, and referenced past alcohol abuse. There are a few violent scenes, but I would say they're in line with canon standards.

The nightmare returns on a Tuesday night.

Cas wakes with a start, but makes no sound. Heart racing, he pulls the covers back with trembling hands, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and bracing his forearms against them. He breathes carefully, in and out, willing his heart rate to settle. The alarm clock on the nightstand provides the only illumination in the room, the curtains drawn tightly closed against the lights from the parking lot. It’s just after four in the morning, and Cas knows from long experience he won’t get any more sleep tonight.

Once he’s fairly certain he can stand without his nausea overwhelming him, he does so, reaching his arms over his head and stretching out the muscles in his neck and shoulders, tight from the defensive pose he’d curled into in his sleep. He scrubs a weary hand over his face, wincing at the stubble that decorates his chin and cheeks. He needs to shave soon, but not now.

He hears a door closing somewhere down the hall. The motel walls are thin, and it’s exactly the sort of place where guests would be coming and going at this time of night. Most of the time, Cas would be keeping similar hours, but he wrapped up a case in Minneapolis the night before and is just passing through on his way back to Kansas. It isn’t home-- there’s no such thing as home for people like him-- but the bunker is as good a place to spend his downtime as any.

He could leave now. The room is paid for, and there’s no reason to linger in this tiny, humid space, with its lingering scent of cigarettes and its outdated furniture. Automatically, he reaches under his pillow, pulling out the rosary hidden there. He traces the smooth surface of its beads and the silver crucifix that dangles from its centre. The beads clack together, breaking the quiet of the room, but it’s a familiar, soothing sound. 

Mind made up, Cas loops the rosary around his neck and heads to the dingy bathroom to gather his things. In the flickering fluorescent light, his face is haggard, the lines around his mouth and eyes deep and shadowed. He laughs without any trace of humour and avoids looking into the mirror again.

Within twenty minutes of waking, he’s on the road.

He drives in near-silence, only the rumble of his battered truck’s engine as a soundtrack to the miles travelled. Some nights, he needs music to drown out the memories in his mind. Others, he needs the strange local talk radio to fill the empty space in the cab of the truck. But on nights like this, he needs the quiet. It’s a rare thing in the kind of life he leads.

By the time the sun begins to peek over the horizon, his nerves have settled and his hands have loosened their grip on the steering wheel. He pulls into a gas station and fills the truck’s tank, exchanging a nod with the woman doing the same at the other pump. The coffee he buys inside the station is terrible, but at least it’s hot. It will keep him awake long enough to make it to the bunker, and then someone will take pity on him and make him a pot of the good stuff from Ellen’s stash. 

His phone rings and he flinches, hot coffee sloshing over the side of the cup and onto his hand. Hissing at the sudden pain, Cas scrambles for the phone and holds it up to his ear, voice terse. “Novak.”

“Hey, Cas!” Charlie’s voice is bright, and Cas smiles despite himself. “Just checking in. That salt and burn go down okay?”

“Textbook,” Cas answers. “I’m on my way to you, actually. Should be there in a few hours.”

There’s a weighty pause, and Cas knows Charlie is mentally calculating the distance between Minneapolis and Lebanon, wondering how he’s so close already. “Okay,” she says, the new softness in her tone confirming his suspicions. “We’ll see you soon.”

Cas ends the call and throws the phone back down on the seat. The coffee tastes even more bitter now, but he finishes it anyway.

Three hours later, he pulls off the highway and onto a smaller road. He asked Ellen, years ago, why she never put up any sign indicating that the Roadhouse was here, and she just snorted and cuffed him lightly on the shoulder. He knows better, now. There are some kinds of attention they don’t want to attract.

The Roadhouse comes into view, its weather-beaten facade looking strangely welcoming in the midday sun. Charlie’s yellow car is parked outside, as is Dorothy’s motorcycle. There are a few other vehicles Cas doesn’t recognize, and he pulls his truck into the last spot available, hoping he won’t have to make small talk with too many strangers or casual acquaintances. Leaving his duffle in the back of the truck, he adjusts his flannel shirt and makes his entrance.

Jo is the first one to spot him, looking up from behind the bar and blinking in surprise. “Welcome back,” she says, but there’s no real welcome in her voice. “You’re early.”

“Made good time,” Cas replies, crossing the room towards her. He slides onto a stool and drums his fingers on the top of the bar as she cracks open a beer and passes it across to him. He’d still rather have the coffee, but beer will do. “How’s business?”

Jo shrugs. “Steady. Nothing major.”

Cas takes a long pull of his beer, glancing around the bar as he does. A few of the other patrons offer nods or brief waves, but most ignore him completely. Hunters aren’t exactly the most talkative people, even in a place designed for them to socialize. 

So he stands back up, saluting Jo with his beer bottle. “I’m going to report in.”

She nods, already busy pouring another round for the slender, dark-haired woman waiting at the other end of the bar. “Come back later. We’ll talk.”

“Sure,” Cas says, but they both know it’s an empty promise. For a brief moment, he sees frustration in Jo’s eyes, but then she purses her lips and turns away.

He hovers awkwardly for another few seconds, then makes his way down the hall, past the bathrooms and towards the set of stairs in the back corner of the building. They creak as he descends, and he winces at the noise. At the foot of the stairs is a heavy door, made entirely of iron. Cas knocks firmly on its cool surface, then steps back.

Mere seconds later, the door groans and swings open to reveal Charlie’s grinning face. Cas feels an answering smile tugging at his own lips and allows himself to be embraced. He pulls away quickly and lets Charlie lead him down the stairs, chattering excitedly the whole way.

She practically pushes him into a seat at the map table, then perches on its edge, giving him a critical look. “Are you hurt?” she asks. “Need anything stitched up?”

“No.” Cas shakes his head. “Not even a scratch.”

Charlie lets out a noisy sigh. “I’m glad. Really. But Cas, you shouldn’t have gone out to Minnesota on your own.”

“I’m fine. I was fine.” He hates being so terse with her, but this is an argument they’ve had before, and he wishes she wouldn’t bring it up every time he gets back from another hunt. “The case is closed, the ghost is gone, and I’m fine.”

“You were reckless.” Charlie’s lips are pressed tightly together, her eyes unusually serious. “Like always.”

“So what makes you think I’m going to change now?” He’s already rising to his feet, not wanting to hear her answer. 

But she plants herself in front of him and crosses her arms over her chest. “This isn’t how we do things,” she says, voice firm. “You know that.”

She’s right. Of course she’s right. Cas sighs, his lack of sleep from the night before starting to catch up with him. “I know.” He summons a small smile, just to ease the strain around her eyes. “I’m sorry. We’ll talk more later. But I could really use a shower first.”

“Now that I agree with.” Charlie sniffs and crinkles up her nose. “You’re stinking the whole place up.”

She’s exaggerating. Hopefully. But Cas does give her a lazy salute, which she returns, and then turns down the corridor towards the shower room. The bunker is an extraordinary place by any standards, but its water pressure is unparalleled. He slowly peels off his clothes and leaves them in a pile on the bench by the door, then pulls the curtain across the stall on the end. The shower room is shared by the Women of Letters and their guests, and as comfortable as they all are with one another, he’s fairly certain none of them have any interest in seeing him naked. Under any circumstances.

The hot water is a blessing, and Cas tilts his face upwards, closing his eyes and letting it pour over him. He wasn’t lying when he told Charlie the hunt left him without a scratch, but his side is bruised from being thrown into a wall by the vengeful spirit. So maybe it was a lie, or at least it wasn’t the truth. But if he had told her the truth, she would have insisted on having Alex, their medic, look him over despite his protests. And that would require a physical closeness he’s done his best to avoid. 

His hands absently trace the lines of the anti-possession symbol tattooed over his heart. Dipping lower, they encounter the scars on his left side. They’re starting to fade, but the memory of how he acquired them isn’t. 

Cas turns the water off abruptly and reaches for his towel, wrapping it around his hips. He should have brought his duffle in with him after all. But his room is just down the hall from the showers, and the bunker is strangely quiet. He makes it to his room without encountering anyone and pulls fresh clothes out of the dresser, basic jeans and a black t-shirt. He dries his hair roughly, not caring how dishevelled it looks, and heads towards the kitchen in search of coffee.

He finds Dorothy there, leaning against the counter and sipping from her own steaming mug. She doesn’t say anything, but she tilts her head towards the pot in invitation. Cas gives her a grateful nod and pours himself a mug, taking a moment to savour the aroma before drinking. A hint of a smile hovers around Dorothy’s lips, but she doesn’t comment. He’s always appreciated her ability to enjoy a companionable silence.

Coffee in hand, Cas retreats to the library. Alex is there, a weighty book spread open on the table in front of her, but she barely looks up when he enters. He browses the shelves idly for a few minutes, then selects a random book and takes it over to his favourite chair in the far corner of the room. Charlie calls it his brooding corner, and he can’t deny that the name is accurate. 

Despite having picked it at random, Cas’ book proves quite interesting. He’s absorbed in a first-hand account of a haunting in Idaho when someone clears their throat in front of him, causing him to look up. 

Ellen raises one eyebrow at him. “Nice of you to stop by.”

Cas closes his book and sets it aside. “Hello, Ellen.” He’s learned, over the years, that it’s best to be direct with her. “I got back earlier than expected, as you can see.”

“And you didn’t bother coming to make your report?” Her eyebrow inches even higher on her forehead. “That must be quite the important book you’re reading there.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Cas matches her stare. “I figured I would see you at dinner, and we could go over the case then, so I would only have to tell the story once.”

Ellen snorts, but her eyes soften slightly. “Always the efficient one, aren’t you.”

“I do my best.” Cas gives her a little nod. “Besides, there isn’t much to tell.”

Sighing, Ellen shakes her head. “I’ll let you get back to your book, then. But don’t even think about missing dinner or trying to sneak off to your room to eat alone.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Cas grins at her, and she mutters something highly uncomplimentary under her breath as she strides away. Alex looks up from her book as she passes, and Ellen pauses to run a hand through her dark hair, giving her a fond smile. A piercing pain passes through Cas’ chest at the ease of the gesture, and he buries his nose back in his book to block it out. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but when his stomach starts rumbling, he finally puts the book down. He stands and stretches, then crosses the room to where Alex sits. “It must be time for dinner.”

She looks up and gives him a small smile. “I hope so,” she says. She closes her book and follows him out of the library and towards the stairs. He doesn’t know Alex well-- she’s only been staying at the bunker for three months. Charlie told him a bit of her history, how she’d been held captive by a nest of vampires and escaped with the help of Sheriff Mills, then stayed with her for a few years until coming here. Cas has a great deal of respect for her, like he does for everyone who frequents the Roadhouse and the bunker, but he doesn’t really know what to say to her, so they walk in silence.

The tables in the main room of the Roadhouse have all been pulled together, creating one long seating space down the centre of the room. Jo and Ash are bustling around, setting down drinks and platters of food, while Ellen yells something from the kitchen and Max and Alicia scramble to help out. Cas takes a seat at the far end of the table, deliberately keeping himself out of the chaos. A few seconds later, Cesar sits down beside him, with Jesse on his other side. They both give Cas nods of greeting, but don’t say much else, more focused on their food. Honestly, Cas likes it better that way.

Tracy takes the seat across from him and grins. They worked a few cases together when Dorothy broke her ankle and couldn’t hunt, and she’s tougher than she looks. If Cas were at all interested in finding a permanent hunting partner, she’d make a good one. But she and Dorothy are a solid team, and Cas is happy on his own.

Well. Happy might be a strong word. But he’s good on his own.

“Charlie says you took care of that vengeful spirit up in Minneapolis,” Tracy says. “I was kind of hoping you’d call for back-up. Haven’t had a good old salt and burn in a while.”

“Maybe next time,” Cas tells her. “But you were busy with something up in the Pacific Northwest, weren’t you?”

Tracy nods. “Demons. Three of them.” She shoots a triumphant look at Dorothy a few seats down. “Exorcised them all, and the people who were possessed are all going to be okay.”

Cas presses a hand to his tattoo without even realizing it. An awkward silence hangs between them as he fights to think of something to say. “Good,” he says eventually. “That’s good.”

Cesar gives him a quick look, eyes shrewd, then turns back to Tracy. “You didn’t want to hang around, have a little vacation time?”

He’s deliberately steering the conversation away from demons, Cas knows, and he’s pathetically grateful for it. Fortunately, no one else seems to have noticed. 

“Nah,” Tracy replies. “Dorothy wanted to get home to her girl.”

They all turn to look at Dorothy and Charlie, who are sitting beside each other at the other end of the table, Dorothy with one arm casually draped over the back of Charlie’s chair. Despite himself, Cas smiles. Dorothy makes Charlie happy, and she deserves that in her life. 

“That’s why I hunt with my husband,” Jesse says, winking at Cesar. 

“You hunt with me because no one else will put up with you,” Cesar replies calmly. There’s muffled laughter from the others around them, and Cas’ smile widens. It’s good to be back, to be around people who can still joke and laugh while hunting monsters on a daily basis. It reminds him that there can be a balance between the two. 

Maybe someday, he’ll find that balance for himself.

As they finish eating, people begin to drift away, some of them to the pool table in the corner, some of them out to their cars. Jesse and Cesar are just passing through on their way back to their ranch in New Mexico, and Cas shakes their hands firmly as they say their goodbyes. Tracy, Max, and Alicia are all at the bar, doing shots of what Cas suspects is tequila, and Ash has disappeared into his lair at the back of the building. 

It’s not until Ellen slides into the seat across from him and props her chin on her hands that Cas begins to feel apprehensive. Jo, Charlie, and Dorothy all follow, and Alex gives him an apologetic look before settling in closer as well.

“What is this, some kind of intervention?” Cas keeps his voice deliberately light, but his shoulders are tense. He should have known none of them would let his evasiveness slide so easily.

“Something like that.” Ellen gives him her patented no-nonsense look. “Tell us about the hunt.”

Cas sighs and drains the last of his beer. “It was a textbook vengeful spirit. A man died in the house twelve years ago. He and a friend had been drinking, and they got into a fight, and he died. It was an accident, but his spirit didn’t care. Started taking it out on the new owners. I found the bones, burned them, and the family is going to be okay.”

Ellen nods. “And what about you?”

Cas just blinks at her. “What about me?”

“You were supposed to wait for me to go with you,” Jo says. Her brown eyes are angry, but there’s something else in their depths. Cas suspects it might be hurt, and feels a pang of guilt. “But I guess the great Cas Novak doesn’t need some girl dragging him down.”

“It isn’t like that--”

“Then what is it like?” Jo interrupts, crossing her arms over her chest. “You didn’t want me to get hurt? You don’t trust me? You’ve worked with partners before, Cas. Reluctantly, but you’ve done it. So why not me?”

They’re all looking at him with matching expressions on their faces. But it’s Jo whose gaze he holds as he says, “I’m sorry. It’s not about you. I swear. I just--” he breaks off, running a hand through his hair. “Sometimes I just need to be alone.”

“You can’t keep going off on your own, Cas.” Charlie’s voice is soft, but there’s a thread of steel in it. “Everyone needs back-up sometimes. We’ve all had those cases, the ones that seem so simple and turn out to be anything but. What if this had been one of those?”

“You got lucky.” Dorothy slides a hand onto Charlie’s shoulder and gives Cas a flat look. “But next time, what if you don’t?”

“We all know this is a dangerous job.” Cas fights to keep his voice level. “Any hunt can go wrong, no matter how straightforward it seems or how many hunters are involved.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to take these risks.” Ellen shakes her head, her eyes terribly compassionate. “Can’t you see that we’re worried about you, Cas?”

He stands so quickly that his chair topples over. “I never asked for you to worry about me.”

Surprisingly, it’s Alex who replies. “Too bad,” she says, her eyes flinty. “We do.”

“You chose to stay with us here,” Ellen reminds him. “And you’ve kept your walls up, Cas, and we’ve respected that. But you’re a part of this place now, and we look after our own.”

“Is that an ultimatum?” Cas raises one eyebrow. “Play by your rules, or get kicked out?”

“Of all the goddamn stubborn men,” Ellen mutters under her breath. “No, it isn’t an ultimatum. It’s me asking you to stop and think before you go charging off on your next case with no back-up. It’s us asking you to have at least that much respect for us.”

Cas stops short, glancing between them. Charlie is biting her lip, Dorothy looks ready to shoot him for upsetting Charlie, Alex looks uncomfortable, and Jo and Ellen are wearing matching expressions of exasperated concern. 

How he ended up with this many people so invested in his continued well-being, Cas isn’t entirely sure. 

“I do respect you,” he says. “All of you. I’m grateful to you for taking me in, for teaching me everything I know. And you’re right, sometimes I can be reckless. It’s part of the job description. But I’m not going to stop going on hunts alone. If that bothers you, I suggest you ask me to leave now.”

No one says a word. Cas exhales loudly, pivots on his heel, and crosses the room. He steals a shot from the line in front of Max, ignoring his protests, and throws it back. He was right, it is tequila. It burns in his throat as he descends the stairs to the bunker and makes for his room, closing and locking the door behind him.

He drops onto the bed, burying his head in his hands. Rationally, he knows why Ellen and the others are so upset. They’ve been nothing but good to him, and he’s never let them in, not the way they’ve wanted him to. But they’ve never pushed him either, and he’s grown comfortable with coming and going as he pleases, never considering himself accountable to anyone. He knows they care about him, and he even knows they would understand better than most if he ever did manage to tell them the whole truth about how he ended up here. But that’s unlikely to ever happen.

Reaching around his neck, Cas pulls off his rosary, fingers sliding over the smooth beads in a practiced motion as he murmurs under his breath. The familiar rhythm soothes him, but it’s still a long time before he manages to fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Cas does in the morning is scroll through the news on his phone, checking the system of custom alerts he has in place to look for cases. At first, there’s nothing, but then his phone chimes with an incoming alert. A small town in Maine, a young man dead. Animal attack, they’re saying.

They may be right. But Cas pulls up his calendar, confirming what he already knew: last night was a full moon.

He stares down at the screen for a minute longer, pinches the bridge of his nose, and rolls out of bed. He never did go back to the truck to get his duffle, so it doesn’t take long for him to pack up.

Most of the bunker’s residents are early risers, but it’s not even six o’clock, so the halls are quiet. He should leave now rather than risk encountering someone, but his stomach growls, and he’d like another cup of the good coffee. The kitchen is empty, the appliances humming faintly, and he quickly toasts himself a bagel while the coffee brews, hoping the smell won’t tempt anyone out of bed.

There are travel mugs in the cupboard above the stove, and Cas is reaching for one when he hears footsteps behind him. He turns slowly and meets Charlie’s resigned gaze. 

“You’re leaving.” It’s a statement, not a question.

Cas nods. “Caught a case.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. She’s wearing plaid pyjama pants and a Star Trek hoodie, her red hair an absolute disaster. She looks young and tired and utterly disappointed in him. “There’s nothing I can say to make you change your mind, is there?”

“No.” Cas shakes his head. “Charlie--”

But she holds up a hand to stop him, and he falls silent. “I want regular reports,” she says. “I want to know exactly how things are going down, and I want you to be honest. If you need help, I want you to ask for it. Will you do that much for me, Cas?”

Shame burns in the back of his throat. It’s the least he can do. “Of course.”

Charlie exhales noisily. “Okay. I don’t like this, but okay. If anyone tries to give you crap for it, you can tell them I sent you alone.”

Her support is no small thing. For all that Ellen tends to take charge, being the oldest and the de facto leader of the hunters who gather at the Roadhouse, Charlie is the official top-ranking Woman of Letters. She rarely throws her authority around, and to know she’s willing to do so for Cas is humbling.

He crosses the room in two quick strides, gathering her in an embrace. He feels her stiffen in surprise before relaxing into his hold, her arms coming tightly around his middle. He presses his cheek against her hair and murmurs, “Thank you.”

“Where exactly are you going?” she asks as they pull apart.

“Maine. Some small town called Sydnam.” He’s already looked it up on the map and plotted his route. It’s a long drive, but that’s never bothered him before. “I’ll let you know when I arrive.”

“There’s a bunch of leftovers in the fridge,” Charlie says, moving past him and opening cupboards as she speaks. “Pack some stuff for the drive.”

“Charlie, I don’t need to--”

She whirls to face him, and he takes an involuntary step back. There’s a fierce light in her eyes he’s never seen before. “God damn it, Cas, would you let somebody be nice to you for once in your life?”

He stares at her, and she shakes her head, muttering something about “men” under her breath. Tentatively, he pulls a box of granola bars down from above the fridge and adds them to the bag she’s packing. She brushes her hand lightly over his wrist as he does, and he swallows roughly. “I’m sorry,” he says again, hating how inadequate the words are.

“I know.” She gives him a lopsided smile. “And I know you mean it. But maybe next time, just be better.”

He doesn’t deserve her. Doesn’t deserve any of them. But he nods and lets her hug him one more time, then creeps up the stairs and through the quiet Roadhouse above, climbing into his truck with a sigh of relief.

As the building fades into the distance in his rearview mirror, he wonders when he’ll see it next.

***

It’s too far to make the drive in one day, so Cas finds a motel for the night. It’s small and nearly empty, but surprisingly clean, and he drops his duffle on the bed with a sigh of relief.

The last of the afternoon sunlight pours through the window, so he sets up his laptop at the table there, checking for any updates on the investigation into the young man’s death. The victim has been identified as Ryan Garland, twenty-three years old, a long-term resident of Sydnam. His parents both live in town, though not together, and are understably devastated. Absently, Cas pulls his rosary out from under his shirt, running his fingers over the smooth beads as he reads on.

The police have ruled it an animal attack. In the forests of Maine, such events aren’t uncommon. The article calls it a terrible tragedy and warns residents to exercise caution, but doesn’t suggest that Ryan met with foul play.

And maybe that is what happened. Maybe the full moon was just a coincidence. But Cas can’t risk the lives of others on a maybe. 

He starts digging deeper into the town’s history as the sun sets. Nothing like this has happened in a long, long time. Animal attacks aren’t rare, but fatal ones are. Most others who encountered bears or cougars have gotten away relatively unscathed. So why was Ryan so unlucky? What was he doing out in the woods that night?

Cas will know more once he talks to the family and friends. From the sounds of it, Ryan had plenty of both. From a logical standpoint, that’s an advantage. The more people Cas has to question, the more likely he is to solve this case. From an emotional standpoint-- well, there shouldn’t be an emotional standpoint. He should be able to divorce himself from his feelings, to approach the situation coldly and rationally. But interviewing friends and family members is by far the hardest part of hunting for him. It hits much too close to home.

Shutting the laptop with a decisive click, Cas stands and scrubs a hand over his face. He knows he should eat something, but he has little appetite. Riffling through the bag he and Charlie packed, he grabs a granola bar and takes it outside along with a bottle of water. There’s a chill in the air, the breeze refreshing after an entire day spent in the truck. Absently scrolling through his phone, Cas is surprised at the lack of angry messages from Ellen or anyone else at the Roadhouse or the bunker. Charlie must have been incredibly convincing to get them to let him go without a fuss.

He should probably hold up his end of the bargain, then. With a sigh, he calls Charlie. She answers on the third ring. “Cas? Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” he assures her. “I stopped for the night at a motel in-- I’m not even entirely sure where, to be honest. I’m just checking in.”

“I appreciate it.” She hesitates for a moment. “What exactly are you hunting, anyway?”

Cas looks around. He’s on the small patio outside his room, but the parking lot is quiet and he can’t see anyone nearby. “A werewolf, I believe.”

The familiar sound of Charlie’s fingers clacking over her keyboard fills his ears. “The timing is right,” she says after a moment. “Was the heart missing?”

“I don’t know.” There had been nothing about it in the articles he’d read. “That will be one of the first things I ask when I speak to the locals.”

“Poor kid.” Charlie’s voice has gone soft, and Cas is certain she’s skimming over the same articles he did, seeing the same pictures, the same vitality in Ryan’s eyes. “Whatever you need, Cas, to catch whoever did this-- or whatever-- we’ve got your back.”

“I know. And I appreciate it.” Cas closes his eyes for a brief second, then sighs. “I should probably get to bed. I want to make an early start in the morning.”

“Good idea,” she agrees. “Goodnight, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Charlie.” He ends the call and drains the last of his water, but doesn’t immediately go back inside. The night air is cool, the moon bright in the sky. Not full, but close enough that it could be mistaken as such.

Cas has never hunted a werewolf before, not on his own. Two years ago, when he was still learning the ropes, he was called in as last-minute back-up to help Isaac and Tamara finish the job, but he missed out on the actual hunting part of the case. Maybe Charlie was right. Maybe he shouldn’t have left on his own. If his inexperience somehow leads to this monster taking more innocent lives, Cas will have no one to blame but himself.

But then again, he’s used to that.

Scowling to himself, he casts one more look at the luminous moon and heads back into his room. He pulls off his boots and his flannel shirt, but leaves his t-shirt and jeans on. Flicking off the lamp, he lies down in the exact centre of the bed, eyelids already drifting closed.

The nightmare wakes him in the dead of night. Cas passes a trembling hand over his forehead and it comes away damp with sweat. A scream builds in the back of his throat, but it emerges as a bitter laugh, harsh in the silence of the room. 

It’s 3:24 AM, according to the alarm clock on the nightstand. Cas stands on shaking legs and makes his way to the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the light. He splashes cold water over his face and rests against the sink for a moment, breathing deeply. 

Normally, he would hit the road and not look back. It’s what he did two nights ago. But he has a case to work, and a responsibility to someone other than himself. Ryan’s family and friends deserve him working at his best, not sleep-deprived and shaking. From a purely practical standpoint, it will also be far easier to pass himself off as an FBI agent if he looks competent and well-rested. 

With one last inhale, Cas returns to bed. He tosses and turns, images from the nightmare flashing behind his eyes every time he closes them. Reaching around his neck, he pulls out his rosary and grips it tight, trying to focus on earlier, happier memories instead. Smiling faces and warm touches, the scent of baking bread and light filtering in through stained-glass windows. Soft voices raised in song, fading away into peaceful silence. 

Eventually, he falls asleep once more.

***

He’s up and out of the motel by eight o’clock the next morning. The cafe attached serves a decent cup of coffee, and the muffins are freshly baked, so he takes both with him to eat on the road. He’s making good time and estimates he should arrive in Sydnam by midday, which means he can start his investigation without delay. It’s enough to put him in a good mood despite the terror of the night before, and he turns the radio on as he drives, absently humming along with the songs he recognizes.

It’s been a long time since he was in this part of the country. The road cuts through thick forests, natural rock formations providing a dramatic backdrop for the autumn colours of their leaves. The further north he gets, the quieter the road becomes. Sydnam is a small town, close to the Canadian border, and has little to attract outside attention. Cas hopes the people will be more welcoming than in some other similar areas he’s visited over the past few years. Their cooperation will be essential in getting this case wrapped up quickly and neatly.

Following the directions on his phone, he pulls off the main highway and onto a smaller road that winds deeper into the forest. It’s beautiful in the quiet way of this area, nothing as dramatic as the mountains in the west or the beaches along the coasts, but with a serenity and sense of history that appeals to him. It’s a shame he’s come here with such grim purpose.

One more turn takes him onto the road that leads into Sydnam. A small sign announces his arrival and wishes him a pleasant stay. Smiling despite himself, Cas slows down to observe the town as he drives.

He passes a gas station, a few restaurants that look family-run, and some large houses set back from the road before he hits what he assumes is the town centre. It’s charming in that small-town way, local businesses that look like they’ve been there for years mixed with a few new, trendier places. There’s a diner, an ice-cream shop, a used bookstore, a hardware store, and several cafes, all of which look promising. As he drives on, he passes a tiny but well-maintained library and a veterinarian’s office. 

The only thing he hasn’t noticed is the police station. He’ll have to look it up once he finds a motel. 

A few miles past the town centre, he spots a sign for the White Pine Motel and makes a sharp right. There are only a few cars parked outside the long, low building, but it looks clean and cheerful, and he’s greeted with a broad smile when he enters the office.

“Welcome to the White Pine,” the man says. “Name’s Roger. What can I do for you today?”

Cas doesn’t even have to force an answering smile to his face. “I need a room for at least two nights,” he explains. “Possibly longer. I’m in town on business and not sure how long I’ll be staying.”

“Not a problem.” Roger punches something into his computer and passes a form across the counter for Cas to sign. “Not exactly our busy season, so we’ll have a place for you. What sort of business, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Drumming his knuckles against the counter, Cas hesitates. But in a town this size, word of his arrival will spread quickly, and it’s never a bad thing to have allies. “I’m looking into the death of Ryan Garland.”

Roger’s eyes widen as Cas flashes one of his many fake badges at him. “Sad business, that,” Roger says softly. “Glad to have your help in it, Agent…”

“Draper,” Cas supplies. “Aidan Draper.” 

“Agent Draper. But I thought it was some animal that got poor Ryan.”

Cas passes the completed form back over the counter and shrugs. “It probably was. But on the off-chance that it wasn’t--”

“Doesn’t bear thinking about.” Roger shudders, his eyes distant.

“Did you know him?” Cas asks. In a town this small, it’s likely he did. And Roger is a pleasant, forthcoming type. If Cas can start gathering information here, it will help him tremendously when he talks to the local authorities later. 

“Of course I knew him,” Roger answers. “Ryan worked here for a few summers when he was still in high school, helping out with maintenance and the like. I always hire a few kids to help out, and he was one of the hardest workers I ever had.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says softly. It’s clear that Roger was close to Ryan, and he almost regrets bringing the matter up.

Roger shakes his head, eyes fierce. “Don’t be sorry, Agent. Just get the job done.”

“I’ll do my best.” Cas takes the room key Roger hands him and gives him a cordial nod in reply. “By the way, I didn’t notice the sheriff’s station on my way through town. I’ll want to check in with them first, of course. Would you mind telling me where I would find them?”

“Yeah, they’re a bit tough to find, but they’re always there when you need them. Go back in towards town and take a left on River Road, and you’ll find the station about five minutes away. Tell Sheriff Hanscum hello from me, would you?”

“Of course.” Cas nods again and turns to leave, pausing with his hand on the door. “Anything else I should know?”

Roger considers it for a moment. “Folks around here take care of each other,” he says after a long pause. “Some of them might not take kindly to a stranger poking around in their business, but we all loved Ryan, and you’re here to help, even if you are a stranger. Give them time, Agent, and they’ll see sense.”

Wise words. Cas lifts his hand in a brief wave, then goes to find his room.

Half an hour later, showered, shaved, and changed into his FBI suit, he gets back in his truck and follows Roger’s directions to the sheriff’s station. It’s a small building with incongruously cheerful flower beds on the lawn outside, a few cruisers parked in the small lot around the back. Cas makes sure he has the correct badge tucked into his pocket and takes a deep breath, smoothing a hand over his hair and checking his reflection in the mirror before heading inside.

There’s a young woman with dark hair seated at the front desk, and she gives him a small smile as he enters. The brass nameplate on her desk informs him that her name is Nancy Fitzgerald. Cas smiles in reply and flashes her his badge, watching as her eyes go wide.

“How can we help you, Agent?” Nancy asks, her voice steady despite her clear nervousness.

“I’d like to speak with the Sheriff, please. Regarding the death of Ryan Garland.”

Before he’s even finished speaking, another woman rounds the corner, beaming at him. Cas nearly staggers back under the force of her smile. “Agent?” she repeats. 

Cas dutifully flashes his badge. 

“Well, this is a real pleasure.” She extends a hand towards him, and Cas takes it, surprised at the strength of her grip. “Sheriff Donna Hanscum, pleasure to meet you.”

“You as well.” Cas clears his throat and looks pointedly around. “Is there somewhere we can speak in private?”

“Oh, of course.” Sheriff Hanscum beckons him towards a small office tucked into the corner of the room and waves him into a seat, closing the door behind them. “Now, what’s all this about?”

Cas leans forward slightly, bracing his forearms on his thighs. “I’ve been sent to look into the death of Ryan Garland.”

The twinkle in the sheriff's eyes is immediately extinguished, her lips drawing together in a tight line. “That poor kid,” she says softly. “But what does the FBI care about an animal attack?”

Fortunately, Cas has had a lot of practice with this particular question. “There may be a connection to an older, unsolved case,” he says as vaguely as he can. “It’s a long-shot, but the bureau deemed it worth looking into.”

Sheriff Hanscum nods, her gaze shrewd as she looks Cas over. “And they sent you alone?”

Cas shrugs loosely. “I’ve just come off another case, and my partner is taking care of paperwork. You know how it is. If the need should arise, she’ll join me here later.”

“Alrighty then.” The suspicion has gone out of Sheriff Hanscum's eyes, but her initial warmth hasn’t fully returned. “I’m guessing you’re going to want all the information we have so far.”

“Please,” Cas says, giving her his best smile. “As well as anything else you can tell me that may not have made it into the files.”

That gets him an arched eyebrow. Sheriff Hanscum leans over the desk, a frown looking entirely out of place on her cheerful features. “Like what, exactly?”

Cas shrugs again. “Things that don’t add up. Things that don’t make sense.”

She hesitates before nodding. Cas leans forward, matching her posture. “What is it? What do you know?”

She stands and clasps her arms behind her back, looking at the map of the state pinned to the wall. “We get a lot of encounters with wildlife out here,” she says. “Our kids grow up knowing to treat the forest and its other inhabitants with respect. Maybe that’s why most animal attacks don’t end up this way.”

It matches with the statistics Cas had discovered while looking into the case. He rises to his feet and joins Sheriff Hanscum, whose face is set in grim lines. “So what was different about this one?”

Shaking her head, she lets out a long breath. “We found him at the edge of the woods.” Her shoulders are tense, her voice level. Cas admires the core of steel he sees in her, the strength below her sunny exterior. “Nothing big enough to do that usually comes so close to town. And he was torn up real good, but he was left there.”

“Who found him?” Cas asks as gently as he can. It’s likely in the file, but he’d rather hear it from her.

“Elizabeth. She owns the diner in town, and she was out for a run early in the morning before work. His phone was ringing, and she followed the sound.”

Cas winces, imagining what a terrible shock that must have been, while also noting the name. He’ll have to pay this Elizabeth a visit as soon as possible. “Anything else?”

Sheriff Hanscum turns back to look at him. “He was torn up. Badly.”

“That seems in keeping with an animal attack.” He keeps his voice light, not wanting to veer off the track they’ve gotten onto. Donna is on the edge of telling him something important, he can tell. “You felt it worth mentioning because--”

“Because, Agent,” she says, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear and grimacing, “his heart was missing.”


	3. Chapter 3

Lizzie’s Diner is part of the string of shops and restaurants that make up the centre of town. Cas finds it with ease after leaving the sheriff’s station, copies of all the relevant files in hand. Pausing outside the door, he pretends to read the menu posted in the window while his eyes scan the interior. It’s about three-quarters full, people bustling around from the kitchen to the booths, everyone with smiles on their faces. It’s the very picture of wholesome small-town hospitality, and Cas is sick at the thought of having to disturb it.

But the town already has been disturbed by Ryan Garland’s death. That’s why Cas is here, after all. 

Turning sharply on his heel, he reaches for the handle of the door at the exact moment someone pushes it open from the other side. The frame smacks Cas solidly in the chest, knocking him slightly off balance, and he looks up, ready to apologize for not paying attention. The words die on his lips as he takes in the man standing there, a scowl on his face and a paper takeout bag clutched in his hands.

“Watch where you’re going,” the man snaps. Cas gets a fleeting glimpse of hard green eyes and a scruffy jaw, but before he can reply, the man strides away, long legs carrying him quickly out of speaking distance. 

Cas stares after him, rattled for reasons he can’t even explain, and then dismisses the incident with a shake of his head as he enters the diner.

There’s an empty stool at the counter, and he slides onto it and waits to be noticed, eyes roving curiously around the room. From what he can see, it’s a well-loved establishment that has probably been here for years. Not exactly the sort of place you’d suspect a killer to be hiding, but appearances can be deceiving.

“You’re new around here.”

Cas looks up to meet the pale blue eyes of a tall, burly man, arms crossed over his broad chest as he sweeps over Cas with his gaze. “Welcome to Sydnam, and to Lizzie’s Diner. What can we get for you?”

Hesitating for only a brief moment, Cas reaches into his pocket and flashes his badge, watching the other man’s eyes go wide and then cold. “Agent Aidan Draper. I’m here investigating the death of Ryan Garland.”

Slowly, the other man nods. “Benny Lafitte. Happy to help in any way we can, Agent. You want anything to eat while you’re here?” There’s a strong Louisiana flavour to his speech, and Cas idly wonders how he ended up so far north. But there are more pressing matters at hand.

“Just coffee, thank you.” Cas folds his hands neatly on the counter in front of him as Benny pours him a steaming mug and passes it over. “Thank you. Mr. Lafitte, I was told that the owner of this establishment is the one who discovered Mr. Garland’s body. I was hoping to speak to her.”

“Ah.” Benny’s mouth tightens. “My apologies, Agent, but Elizabeth isn’t in today. She’s taken a few days off.”

“Understandable.” Cas nods and takes a sip of his coffee. It’s hot and strong and he gives a little hum of contentment before continuing. “Can you tell me where I would find her, if not here?”

Benny crosses his arms over his chest again. It’s not quite a threatening gesture, but it does speak to his evident displeasure. “Listen, Agent. This might be just another job to you, somewhere else the bosses sent you, but it’s more than that to us. Ryan was a good kid. And in addition to being my boss, Elizabeth is my niece. You’ll forgive me if I don’t want you harassing her.”

Sheriff Hanscum had warned him that not everyone might take well to his presence. Cas wonders if she had Benny in mind when she made that statement.

“I have no intention of harassing anyone.” Cas keeps his voice level, his expression neutral. “But I do have a job to do, and it involves talking to your niece, Mr. Lafitte. I promise you I will be respectful of her pain, and that I will make it as brief as I can. However, my first duty is to the victim, and to his family, and that means understanding what happened two nights ago.”

Slowly, Benny unfolds his arms. He grabs a pen and a pad of paper from the counter and scribbles down an address and a phone number. “This is how you can reach Elizabeth,” he says, still sounding none too happy about this whole thing. “Now, is there anything else I can do for you, Agent?”

Cas makes a split-second decision. “Yes,” he says. “It’s been a while since lunch. A burger and fries, please.”

A hint of a smile appears on Benny’s face, turning him from a somewhat menacing figure into someone who could best be described as cuddly. “Couldn’t resist, could you? Coming right up.”

The burger is delicious, and Cas doesn’t regret taking the time to stop and eat before paying Elizabeth a visit. By the time he leaves, Benny has thawed considerably, giving Cas a cheerful wave and a smile as he leaves. 

He pulls up the address Benny gave him and sees it isn’t far at all. Debating with himself for a moment, he decides to drive over immediately rather than calling to see if Elizabeth is at home. Less than ten minutes later, he pulls up outside a neat, cheerful, one-level home on a quiet street. There’s a slightly battered blue sedan in the driveway, leading Cas to hope he will find Elizabeth at home.

Knocking firmly on the door, Cas adjusts his tie, which has an irritating habit of becoming crooked. He hears footsteps approaching and quickly pastes on his professional expression as a young woman opens the door, eyes curious but not afraid.

“Yes?”

“Elizabeth Lafitte?” At her nod, Cas presents his badge, and she takes a small step back before recovering. “I’m Agent Draper, here investigating the death of Ryan Garland, and I was hoping I could take a few minutes of your time to discuss it with you.”

“Of course. Please, come in.” She has a low voice, with traces of a Cajun accent like her uncle’s. She looks too close to him in age to be his niece, but there are a thousand ways to explain that, and Benny’s protectiveness spoke of familial connection far more loudly than his announcing it. 

She shows him into the living room and offers him tea, which he declines. The house isn’t large, but it’s well-maintained and clearly loved. “You live here alone?” he asks.

Elizabeth nods. “For about ten years now. Moved up after my parents died and took over the diner from the last owners.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Cas says instinctively. She nods her thanks, but doesn’t seem particularly interested in delving further into her own history, so he shifts back to the reason he came. “Now. Sheriff Hanscum informed me you were the one who found the body.”

She swallows visibly and clasps her hands in front of her. “I did.”

“What can you tell me about that morning?” Cas deliberately keeps his voice soft, hoping to make it more of a conversation than an interrogation.

“It was just another day.” She doesn’t look at Cas as she speaks, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond him. “I like to run before work when the weather’s good. I was on my usual route, and I heard something strange. It’s usually quiet at that time of day, so I turned off the road and followed the noise.” Her hands tighten in her lap, and she meets Cas’ eyes. “That’s when I found him. There was so much--” she chokes on the words, looking away again. 

“I’m sorry to have to make you revisit this,” Cas tells her. 

She takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “It’s alright. It’s important.”

“Can you show me exactly where you were when you discovered the body?” He pulls out a map of town and passes it over to her. Sheriff Hanscum had marked the location for him, of course, but he wants to see it through Elizabeth’s eyes. 

“Here.” She points to the exact spot Sheriff Hanscum had marked. “I turned off the main road here, and it wasn’t far down. Right at the edge of the trees.”

Cas looks at the map again. “What is this?” he asks, tapping the line indicating the road she turned onto. “Where does this road go, other than into the forest?”

“Nowhere, really.” Elizabeth shrugs. “It winds around eventually and comes out on the other side of town, but there’s nothing down there. Well, except for the Winchester place, I guess.”

“Winchester place?” Cas repeats. He doesn’t recognize the name from any of the police files. “What can you tell me about it?”

Elizabeth’s eyes widen. “Oh, I don’t think they had anything to do with it,” she says hastily.

“Humour me,” Cas replies.

“There isn’t much to tell. The road goes into the woods, like you saw, and about a mile in, there’s an old house. More of a cabin, really. Mr. Winchester and his boys moved there years ago, or so I’ve been told. It was before my time. I never knew him, and the younger son left not long after I moved here. It’s just the older one out there now. Dean.”

Cas scribbles the name down along the top of the files from the sheriff’s station. “Do you know Mr. Winchester at all?”

Elizabeth shrugs again. “He comes into the diner now and then. Always gets his food to go. He doesn’t talk much, but he always leaves a nice tip. My uncle knows him better than I do.”

“You didn’t see him that morning?”

“No.” Her voice is firm. “There was nobody else around, Agent.”

“How well did you know Ryan Garland?” Cas asks, leaving the subject of Dean Winchester for the moment. “I understand he was a popular young man.”

“He was.” A sad smile turns up the corners of Elizabeth’s mouth. “All the high school kids would come to the diner for milkshakes on Friday nights. I watched him have his first date there. He was a good kid, Agent, and he was showing every sign of becoming a good man.”

“Had you seen him at all in the days leading up to his death?”

Considering it for a moment, Elizabeth shakes her head. “I saw him around a few days before, I think? At the general store. But we didn’t talk.”

Cas nods. So far, Elizabeth has given him no reason to doubt her story or to suspect she was in any way involved in Ryan’s death. “One last question. You said his phone was ringing, and that was what drew you off the main road. Do you know who was calling him?”

“No.” She shakes her head again. “The police took his phone, I’m sure, but I wasn’t paying any attention to it once I found him. I was too busy calling them myself.”

Rising to his feet, Cas offers her his hand. “Thank you for your help. I’m sorry that you had to witness this terrible event. May I count on your assistance if I have any further questions?”

“Of course.” Elizabeth stands and walks him to the door. He’s already on the porch when she calls after him. “It was an animal attack, though, wasn’t it? What else could you have questions about?”

Cas turns back to her, taking in the way she’s holding her arms tightly around herself, the pallor of her skin. “I’m sure I won’t,” he says as soothingly as he can. “Have a good night.” He climbs into his truck and pulls away, Elizabeth still watching him from the porch as he goes.

On the drive back to the motel, Cas thinks over what she told him. Other than the fact that it took place on the night of a full moon and that the victim’s heart was missing, there’s no evidence that this was anything other than an animal attack. The full moon could merely be a coincidence, and the heart being missing the same. By all accounts, Ryan Garland was loved by the town. If this was a werewolf, why would he have been the first victim? 

Or maybe there was no reason, other than the need to kill. To survive. To do as nature dictates. Maybe Ryan was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and paid for it with his life.

If that’s the case, soon it will be someone-- or something-- else’s turn to pay. And Cas will be the one to collect.

***

He rises early the next morning and drives out to the spot where the body was found. The area is still marked off with yellow tape, but other than that, it’s a quiet, unremarkable place. The road that leads further into the forest is narrow and pitted, the trees growing close to the gravel and giving the impression of a tunnel leading away from the bright morning sunlight. Cas looks down the road and feels a distinct chill crawl up his spine. Shaking it off, he crouches on the ground, his tan trench coat spread behind him like a cape.

There was a picture of Ryan Garland in the police files. Several of them, in fact. Cas read the description, pored over the images, and still has a hard time imagining what his body would have looked like, sprawled on the grass here. 

Nothing about this makes sense. If it was an animal attack, why did it happen here and not further back in the trees? Was Ryan running for safety when he was caught? Or if it was a werewolf, as Cas still suspects, why leave the body here rather than trying to cover it up? 

One thing is certain. He needs to speak with Ryan’s family and friends and try to determine what he was doing that night. 

The rumble of an engine startles him, his hand flying to the gun concealed at his waist as he rises. A truck emblazoned with the logo of the sheriff’s department pulls over, and Cas relaxes as Sheriff Hanscum swings down, a smile on her face as she approaches.

“Good morning, Agent!” She holds out her hand and Cas shakes it. “Looks like you had the same idea I did.”

“Looking for anything you might have missed?” Too late, Cas realizes that sounds like an accusation of laziness, but Sheriff Hanscum just nods, eyes narrowing as she looks around. 

“There’s something that’s been bothering me about this whole thing,” she says, pushing aside the yellow tape. “Other than the way the body was torn up, we found no signs of any big critters around here. No paw prints, no fur, nothing.”

Cas frowns and crouches down again. He can see where Ryan’s body lay, but the sheriff is right. The only other marks are some indentations in the grass, too faint to be identified as footprints, that could have come from Ryan himself or from Elizabeth or any of the others who arrived at the scene after the body was found.

“You’ve dealt with other animal attacks before?” he asks. 

She nods sharply. “More than I’d like. But when Elizabeth called in and said she found Ryan here, well, we’d never had anything like that happen before.” 

Foolishly, Cas is glad that this is the most she’s seen of the darkness of the world. He only wishes she had been spared even this glimpse.

“I’m going to talk to the family later,” he says. “I need to know what Ryan was doing here.”

Sheriff Hanscum raises a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she looks at him. “Do you want me to come with you? Might be easier, having someone they know there.”

It’s a generous offer, and it does make a certain amount of sense. But Cas may need to ask questions that don’t follow standard procedure, and even if the people he’s interviewing can be persuaded that they’re necessary, the sheriff might be more suspicious.

“No, thank you,” he says. “But I appreciate the offer, Sheriff.”

“Donna,” she says firmly. “If we’re going to be working together on this, it’s Donna.”

He almost gives her his real name in reply, catching himself only at the last second. “Aidan, then.”

“Well, Aidan. I’m heading back to the station. Just dropped by on my way. Care to join me?”

“No, thank you,” he says again. “But I may stop by later, depending on how things go with the family.”

Donna smiles again, and Cas can’t help smiling in response. “I hope you do.”

She climbs back into her truck and pulls away with a last wave. Cas watches her go, then turns to his own vehicle. It’s still early, but not an unreasonable time to pay a visit to Ryan’s mother. He looks around one last time, his eyes lingering over the road that disappears into the trees. According to Elizabeth, it leads nowhere but back around the other side of town, and only one person lives out in the forest off its path.

Before he realizes he’s moving, Cas is walking down the road, the trees closing in over him and blocking out most of the light. It’s quiet, and there should be a sense of stillness about it, but instead he feels claustrophobic, like the trees are pressing in against him. 

As he walks, Cas feels that prickling sensation along the back of his neck again. Almost as though someone is watching him. He whirls around, but no one is there. Shoulders tense, he scans the trees, but they’re too dense to see anything between them. If someone is out there, they’re well hidden. 

“I know you’re there,” he says, his voice ringing shockingly loud in the otherwise silent air. “Won’t you come out and introduce yourself? It’s the polite thing to do.”

There’s no response.

Of course there isn’t. It’s a fine line between being cautious and being paranoid, and Cas has been walking it for a long time. But his instincts tell him that something is out there, and he’s learned to trust his instincts over the years. 

He could keep walking. He would find the house, or the cabin, soon enough. Instead, Cas turns and heads back the way he came. This eerie path into the forest doesn’t offer any answers. To get those, he needs to speak to Ryan’s family and friends, like he originally intended to do.

The feeling of being watched doesn’t disappear until he’s back in his truck, the road fading away in his rearview mirror.


	4. Chapter 4

Camille Garland is forty-eight years old, divorced, and lives alone in a house far too large for one person to occupy. But now that Ryan is dead, she may not stay in Sydnam any longer. There’s nothing left for her here.

She tells Cas all of this over a cup of tea and freshly baked blueberry muffins. There’s a quiet dignity about her despite her terrible loss, and Cas finds himself liking her a great deal. She answers all of his questions with consideration, and Cas slowly begins to piece together a clearer portrait of Ryan. 

But he still has no idea what he was doing out on the night of the full moon, and how he ended up where he did.

“You said Ryan moved out a few years ago. Where has he been living since then?”

Camille takes a sip of her tea before answering. “He has-- had-- an apartment in town. Above the general store. He shared it with his friend Theo, whose parents own the store.”

It’s the first Cas has heard of this Theo character, so he makes a note of the name. “But you saw Ryan frequently, despite his not living here anymore.”

“Yes. Maybe it’s because he was an only child, or maybe because he chose to live with me after the divorce, but we’ve always been close. He took me out for lunch for my birthday just a few days before--” Her voice cracks, the only sign of distress she’s displayed so far. 

Cas gives her a moment to compose herself before continuing. “And how did Ryan seem at the time? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“No.” She shakes her head firmly. “We had a lovely afternoon. He was happy and talkative and completely normal, Agent.”

“And he made no mention of having any plans for that night?”

She shrugs helplessly. “Not that I can recall.”

Cas drums his fingers against the arm of his chair. Camille doesn’t seem to know any more than he does, and it’s clear this interview is taking a toll on her. 

“One last question,” he says, giving her a small smile. “Ryan’s body was found just off the main road, right at the edge of the forest. Is that an area he would have any reason to be?”

“There’s nothing out there, really,” she says, frowning. “The road goes out to the old Winchester place, but--”

“But what?” Cas prods. 

“It’s nothing,” she says quickly. “I’m sure.”

“Camille.” He waits until she lifts her eyes to his, and gives her his most professional stare. “Any detail, however small, could be important.”

Sighing, she folds her hands in her lap. “It’s just something the local kids would do sometimes. Dare each other to go out along the road into the woods and see how close they could get to the Winchester place. No one ever made it as far as the house, from what I’ve heard. It was just a silly game they played. You know how it is when small towns have so little to offer by way of entertainment.”

“And why would they choose that particular road, that particular house?” Cas leans forward with interest. “I was out there this morning. There is something slightly off-putting about it, I’ll admit.”

She shrugs again. “No one knew the Winchesters well. John was a handyman, did odd jobs around the town, but he wasn’t what you would call particularly sociable. The boys went to school but kept to themselves for the most part. And they lived all alone out in the woods. Somehow, they became the subject of a lot of gossip. And then John just-- disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Cas repeats. “Died, you mean? Or left town?” 

“Nobody knows. Dean must have been, oh, twenty or so at the time? Old enough to look after Sam. We all offered to help, but he always refused and said his father was coming back.”

“But he never did?” It’s a sad story, and maybe someone other than Cas could be roused to sympathy by it, but all he can see are the inconsistencies, the strangeness of it all. And in his world, strange is usually a very bad thing. 

“No.” Camille shakes her head sadly. “Sam went off to school two years later. He was always a bright boy. And Dean stayed out in that house all by himself.”

Cas does some quick mental calculations. Dean must be a fairly young man, a few years younger than Castiel himself. Why would he keep himself so closed off from the town? Why would he even stay?

Rising to his feet, Cas extends a hand to Camille. “Thank you for your time, ma’am. And let me say again how sorry I am for your loss.”

She squeezes his hand lightly and summons a small smile. “Thank you, Agent. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

It’s a strange thing to say, but it leaves a warm feeling in Cas’ chest as he gets into his truck. He sits for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, and considers going over to the sheriff’s station to talk to Donna. But instead, he finds himself back on the road that leads towards the Winchester place.

The oppressiveness of the trees so close to the road is only slightly lessened being in a car instead of on foot. Cas fights the urge to speed up in order to shorten the trip. He looks around as he drives, but there’s nothing of interest, just thick forest and the occasional cry of a bird. 

A mile down the road, the road curves, and a small house comes into view. Like Elizabeth said, it’s more of a cabin, really. But the grass out front is neatly trimmed, and both the house and garage nearby are in good repair. There’s a laundry line stretched along the yard, plain t-shirts and plaid flapping in the breeze despite the chill of the air.

It looks peaceful. Idyllic, even. Cas cuts the engine and gets out of the truck, hand drifting automatically to adjust his tie. Schooling his features into a neutral expression, he steps onto the porch and knocks on the door.

Barely a second later, it opens an inch, not far enough to reveal the person on the other side. “What?”

Well. It’s not the first time Cas has been faced with rude or uncooperative people in this line of work. He holds up his badge, doing his best to angle it so it can be seen through the tiny opening. “I’m Agent Draper. I’d like to speak with you, Mr. Winchester.”

There’s a muffled noise and something that sounds like a bitten-off curse, then the door is abruptly pulled open. Cas takes a step back as he gets a good look at the man standing there, arms crossed over his chest. 

He’s gorgeous. There’s no other word for it. Despite the threatening posture and the scowl on his face, Dean Winchester is an absurdly attractive man. A few inches taller than Cas himself, broad in the shoulder and narrow at the waist, with golden brown hair and a scruffy beard. And above all that, shockingly green eyes. Eyes that look strangely familiar.

“You,” Dean says, scowl intensifying. “Didn’t I tell you to watch where you were going?”

The man from the diner the day before. The one who almost knocked Cas over and didn’t even have the small town manners to apologize for it. Cas scowls back at him and steps towards him. “You did,” he agrees. “And yet I find myself here.”

“Why?” Dean glances back at the badge still held loosely in Cas’ hand. “Am I in trouble, Agent?” There’s no fear or nervousness in his tone, just pure scorn, and Cas’ anger burns brightly in his chest. 

“You might be,” he says tightly. “Are you going to invite me in, Mr. Winchester? I have a few questions regarding the death of Ryan Garland.”

The change in Dean’s demeanor is instantaneous. He swallows roughly, shakes his head, and gestures to the two chairs on the porch. Cas takes one, watching warily as Dean lowers himself into the other, no longer scowling but with a terrible blankness on his face.

It’s more of a reaction than Cas might have expected. “Did you know Mr. Garland?”

Dean shakes his head. “Not well. But I saw him around town sometimes. He was just a kid.”

“Did you know that his body was found on the road that leads to your property?” Cas watches Dean’s face as he asks, hoping for a flicker of surprise or guilt or some other emotion. But Dean’s face stays carefully blank.

“No,” Dean says. “But I’m guessing that’s why you’re here.”

“Indeed.” Cas leans forward and fixes Dean with an intense stare. “Where were you Wednesday night, Mr. Winchester?”

“Here.” 

“All night?”

Dean lets out a noise that might be a laugh if it weren’t so bitter. “You may have heard, Agent, that I’m not the most social person. Yes, all night. There’s nothing unusual about that.”

Cas doesn’t rise to the bait. “Can anyone verify your whereabouts that night?”

After a tense pause, Dean shakes his head. “No.”

“Ah.” Cas shakes his head. “That is unfortunate. And did you hear or see anything unusual that night, Mr. Winchester?”

“No,” Dean says again. 

For someone who doesn’t have an alibi, he seems remarkably unconcerned about defending himself. Cas resists the urge to push his hair back in frustration, keeping his hands clenched in his lap instead. “You didn’t see Ryan Garland that night? Or anyone else?”

“I was here, alone, all night.” There’s a hint of a challenge in Dean’s voice, matched by the one in his eyes. “If you’re looking for answers, you’ve come to the wrong place, Agent.”

“Maybe.” Cas looks at him for a long moment, then switches tactics. “You’ve lived here for how long, Mr. Winchester?”

“Sixteen years.” Dean answers readily enough, but there’s a new tension in the set of his shoulders. 

“And you’ve lived here alone for the past ten.”

“If you already know, why are you asking?”

Cas gives him a smile they both know is entirely fake. “Just confirming the facts, Mr. Winchester.”

He’s treated to an exaggerated eye-roll, but Dean answers. “Yeah. My brother moved out to go to college, and now it’s just me.”

“Why did you stay?” It’s the question that has been bothering Cas the most, especially after talking to Camille earlier in the day. She is already making plans to leave town, and she’s arguably far more entrenched in the community than Dean is. If she doesn’t want to stay and be reminded of her loss, why does he?

Apparently, it’s the wrong question. Dean’s eyes go cold, and his lips tighten. “I don’t think that’s relevant, Agent.”

Cas could press him, could threaten him, but he senses it would only end badly for both of them. So he nods, leaving the subject for now. “Alright. What do you do for work, Mr. Winchester?”

“I work from home.” There’s a mocking smile on Dean’s face, and Cas can’t tell which of them it’s directed at. “Testing websites for ease of use and so on.”

“How convenient,” Cas comments.

“It is,” Dean agrees. “It saves me from having to deal with useless conversations with strangers. For the most part.”

Cas isn’t insulted for himself, but he doesn’t appreciate his questions being called useless. Not when a young man died horribly just a mile from here. “There’s nothing useless about this conversation, Mr. Winchester, unless you deliberately make it so. A young man is dead. I’m trying to figure out what happened to him, and I’d appreciate your cooperation in the matter.”

Dean raises one eyebrow in response to his heated tone, and gives a nod of what Cas thinks might be approval. “You’re right,” he says. “It’s a shame about Ryan. But I don’t know anything about it. I wish I could help, but I can’t.”

“You can’t think of any reason why he would have been out near the road that leads to your property, presumably alone, on a fairly unpleasant night in the middle of November?” Cas presses.

The smooth rise and fall of Dean’s shoulders as he shrugs should be illegal. Cas is only human, and he only has a fake badge. So he fights to keep his face impassive and not to betray any of the thousand filthy thoughts running through his head as Dean answers. “Something brought you out here, Agent, and I’m guessing it wasn’t just the fact that they found Ryan on the road to my place. Somebody’s been telling you all the local myths, haven’t they?”

“I’ve been told there’s some mystery attached to you and your family, yes.” Cas tilts his head to the side, considering. “Why do you think that is?”

Dean’s voice is quiet when he replies. “People don’t like what they don’t understand.” He looks away from Cas as he speaks, but there’s a world of sadness under his simple words, and weariness as well. It strikes a chord within Cas, and he almost reaches out, but restrains himself at the last minute.

It’s probably a good thing, because Dean turns back to face him, that mocking gleam in his eyes once more. “And you’re no different, are you?”

“No.” Cas keeps his eyes fixed on Dean. “I am trying to understand, Mr. Winchester. For that boy’s sake.”

Dean tips his head back against the chair and closes his eyes. “Go home, Agent. There’s nothing to understand here. Ryan Garland was killed by a wild animal. It’s awful, and I’m sorry for his family, but that’s all there is to it. Let them grieve in peace.”

Is that what Dean is doing out here, all alone in the woods? Grieving in peace? What happened to John Winchester, and why did Sam Winchester never come back after he left for college? Cas still has so many unanswered questions, and while he tries to tell himself it’s all somehow relevant to the case, he knows it’s a lie. 

He wants to understand Dean. 

Cas stands and offers his hand to Dean instinctively. Dean gives him an unreadable look, then clasps it in his own. His palm is broad and warm and lighty calloused, and Cas swallows roughly at the feel of it. 

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Winchester,” he manages. “If I have any further questions--”

“You know where to find me.” Dean drops his hand and smirks. 

Biting back an unprofessional remark, Cas strides towards his truck. He pauses with his hand on the door and looks back at the house, at Dean standing there, perfectly at ease in his surroundings.

“If it was a wild animal that killed Ryan,” he says, “you should be careful out here all by yourself.”

A smile spreads across Dean’s face. Despite the fact that it’s slightly twisted, that bitterness still lingering in his eyes, Cas’ chest tightens with the beauty of it. He really is unfairly attractive. 

“Don’t you worry about me, Agent,” Dean says. “I can take care of myself.”

It’s an unsettling reply, and Cas drives away with the feeling that somehow, Dean intended it exactly that way. He hates to give any credence to the sort of suspicious gossip that swirls around the Winchesters and their home, but he can’t deny that there’s something off about Dean. Something that calls to him as much as much as it warns him away.

But Dean was right about one thing. If there are answers to be found about why Ryan was in the woods that night, Dean isn’t the one to provide them.

***

By the time Cas returns to the motel that night, he’s exhausted. He’s spent the entire day interviewing various people about Ryan’s death and has made no tangible progress.

Tom Garland, Ryan’s father, had been no help at all. He barely saw Ryan anymore, though they were polite with each other when they did meet. In spite of that, he had been more visibly upset than Camille, and Cas hadn’t stayed long, not wanting to overwhelm him completely.

After that, Cas had paid a visit to Theo, Ryan’s former roommate. He was even more of a wreck than Ryan’s father, pale and red-eyed and stinking of alcohol. He told Cas that he had been out that night, in a bar a few towns over, and hadn’t even noticed that Ryan was gone. Cas got the name of the bar and resolved to give them a call to confirm Theo’s story, then spent a fruitless half hour searching Ryan’s room for anything that might help fill in the gaps.

He found nothing.

Cas slumps wearily onto the bed, sorely tempted to close his eyes and pass out. But as much as he dreads the thought of another conversation, it’s time to make his nightly report to Charlie. He did promise her, after all. 

“Cas?” she says, picking up on the very first ring. “How are you?”

“Tired,” he admits. “I’m not making much progress here, Charlie.”

“Take me through it.” There’s patience and understanding in her voice, and Cas finds himself telling the entire story, or what he knows of it, starting with Ryan’s death and ending with him coming back to the motel tonight.

“I have no suspects, no motive, no evidence that this is even a case other than the full moon and the missing heart,” he concludes. “Maybe I should just accept it. It was a random animal attack, and I jumped on this case because I was desperate to get out of the bunker and prove I could do this on my own.”

“You don’t have to prove anything, Cas. Not to us.” Charlie pauses for a moment, and Cas can hear her fingers clicking away on her keyboard. “And besides, you might be the only one taking in the scenic atmosphere of Maine in the fall, but you’re not really on your own. You’ve still got me, just remotely.”

Cas smiles even though she can’t see him. “I do,” he says. “And I appreciate it.”

“So,” Charlie continues. “We’ve got one dead kid, who, as far as we can tell, nobody had a reason to want dead. We have a small town full of people who loved him, but no one who can tell us why he was out that night. We have a cooperative Sheriff and people who are generally willing to talk to you, but who don’t know anything that can help. And we have one mysterious recluse, who’s closer to the scene than anyone else, with no alibi for that night.”

Cas winces at hearing it all laid out so neatly. “Essentially, yes.”

“Okay.” There’s a new note of severity in Charlie’s voice, the tone she takes on the rare occasion she slips into the role of leader of the Women of Letters. “If we can’t find a motive for why Ryan Garland was the one to die, we need to take him out of the equation for now and focus on finding the suspect. If this is a werewolf, they’ll kill again. Probably on the next full moon. Our job is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“You want me to stay here for a month?” Cas doesn’t care, really. He’ll stay as long as it takes to get the job done. But he is surprised to hear Charlie suggest it. 

“If you need to, then yes. I’m going to start looking into the residents of Sydnam from here, see if I can dig up any dirt on any of them. In the meantime, you start putting pressure on the most likely suspects. The roommate, for one. Even if he was at a bar that night, he could have been home in time to see something. Or do something.”

“Okay.” As much as he likes doing things on his own, striking his own path, there’s a reassuring familiarity in taking direction from someone else. Charlie knows how best to approach these situations, and Cas is willing to let her take the lead here, even at a distance.

“And this Winchester guy.” A cold dread settles in Cas’ stomach as Charlie says his name. “There’s something shady there for sure. Whether it’s relevant or not, we’ll find out.”

“He’s not exactly the most talkative person,” Cas says carefully. “I’m not sure how much information I can get out of him.”

“Then go around him,” Charlie replies. “Come on, Cas, you know this. You said there was a brother, right? Talk to him instead.”

“Right. Of course.” Cas gives a short laugh. “I’ll find out where he lives and try to get out there tomorrow if I can.”

There’s silence at the other end of the line, and Charlie’s voice is softer when she speaks again. “You sure you’re okay, Cas? You seem a little bit--”

“I know,” he interrupts, before she can choose a precise descriptor for his behaviour. “I’m just frustrated. I’d like to at least be sure of what I’m hunting by this point, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. Get some sleep, Cas. We’ve got a plan. We’re going to figure this out, I promise.”

Cas closes his eyes and tries to absorb some of her confidence. More than anything else, that’s what he needs from her: the belief that things will work out in the end. The belief that what they’re doing is worthwhile.

“Goodnight, Charlie.”

“Night, Cas.”

He ends the call and stares out into the quiet parking lot. Tomorrow, he’ll track down Sam Winchester, and see what he knows. But it isn’t Sam he’s thinking about tonight.

It’s the sadness he heard in Dean’s voice when he said _people don’t like what they don’t understand_.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s surprisingly easy to track Sam Winchester down. He lives in Caribou, about an hour and a half’s drive away, and according to the website that pops up when Cas searches his name, he’s the co-owner of the town’s small art gallery. 

If the Winchesters have any hiding to do, Sam is doing so in plain sight.

Cas gets up early on Sunday morning and makes the drive to Caribou. It’s bigger than Sydnam, more of a proper town, but it still has a certain charm to it that Cas finds appealing. The gallery is located on the main street, but it’s closed for the day, a cheerful sign directing customers to please come back during business hours.

He’ll have to pay a visit to Sam at home, then.

Parking the truck outside the address he found online, Cas is immediately greeted with the sound of happy barking as a golden retriever comes bounding across the yard towards him. Dropping into a crouch, he greets the dog with a smile, then looks up to see a dark-haired young woman hurrying towards him, an apologetic expression on her face. 

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “Bones, leave the nice man alone.”

“Not to worry.” Cas reaches for his badge. “I’m Agent Draper. I was hoping to speak to Sam Winchester, if he’s available.”

“Oh.” Her eyes go wide, and her hands tighten in the scruff around the dog’s neck. “Is there a problem, Agent? I’m Sarah Blake. Sam is my fiancé.”

Cas gives her his most reassuring smile. “Nothing to worry about, really. Just a few routine questions with regard to an incident in Sydnam.”

Sarah tilts her head to the side, her eyes assessing. “I think you’d better come in, Agent. Sam is out on a run, but he should be back soon.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, and follows her into the house.

He accepts her offer of a cup of coffee and pets Bones while he waits for her to come back. The house is beautifully furnished, and it looks like a happy home. He mentions it to Sarah when she returns, and a pleased smile breaks across her face. “Thank you,” she says. “We run the gallery in town, so it’s good to know we have anything resembling good taste.”

They chat lightly for a few minutes. Sarah is nervous, Cas can tell, but she does a good job hiding it. She’s warm and clever and would fit in extremely well with the women of the Roadhouse and the bunker. 

The front door opens, and the dog is up in a flash, dashing to greet the new arrival. Cas rises and reaches for his badge as a very tall man rounds the corner, dressed in running gear.

“Sam,” Sarah says, coming to stand beside him, “this is Agent Draper. He’d like to speak with you.”

There’s a slight family resemblance, Cas can see, though Sam is taller and sharper-featured. His hair is worn long and pulled back from his face, which has an openness to it that is markedly absent from Dean’s. 

He extends one hand and shakes Cas’, barely looking at his badge. “Sorry about all this,” he laughs, gesturing to his clothing. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Of course. I’m sorry for dropping by unannounced. I promise I won’t take up too much of your time.”

Sarah ushers them back into the living room, the dog settling happily at their feet. “How can I help you, Agent?” Sam asks.

“Are you aware of the death of Ryan Garland?” It’s a blunt way to open the conversation, but they have to start somewhere.

“Of course,” Sam replies. “It’s awful.”

“Did you know the victim at all?” There would have been a few years between Sam and Ryan, from Cas’ calculations, but in a town that small, they were surely at least somewhat acquainted with one another.

“Not particularly well, no, but I remember him being a good kid.” A slight frown creases Sam’s forehead. “I’m sorry, Agent, but I haven’t lived in Sydnam in ten years. I’m not sure I can be of much help to you.”

“Unfortunately, I think you can.” Cas takes a deep breath and holds Sam’s gaze. “Ryan Garland’s body was found off the road that leads towards your family’s property, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes go wide, and Sarah casts a concerned look at him before turning to face Cas. “Not...on the property itself?”

“No,” Cas replies. “But there’s little else around. My question to you, Sam, is if you can tell me anything at all that would help explain what Ryan was doing there that night.”

Sam swallows heavily. “This might seem like an indelicate question, but-- couldn’t his body have been dragged there? By whatever killed him?”

Cas inclines his head. “Of course. But we found no evidence of the body having been moved.”

Exhaling noisily, Sam shakes his head. “Then no, I have no idea why he would have been anywhere near there. Like you said, there’s not much else around.”

His confusion seems genuine. But it’s Cas’ job to dig deeper. “I spoke to a few people in town,” he says. “They told me the local kids like to dare each other to go down that road at night sometimes. That no one ever makes it far before being spooked and turning back.”

“We used to do something like that, with an abandoned house at the edge of town.” Sarah smiles at the memory. “Just kids beings kids, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.” Cas looks at Sam as he speaks, though. “But why would the kids of Sydnam pick that road, when your family’s home is the only thing along it?”

For the first time, Sam’s pleasant expression slips. A flash of hostility lights his hazel eyes, and the resemblance to his brother becomes much stronger. “Kids used to say all sorts of things about us,” he answers, voice tight. “But like you said, Sarah, it was just kids being kids. And Ryan was long past that kind of thing.”

“Indeed,” Cas says again. “You left Sydnam ten years ago, correct? And you never moved back?”

“No.” Sam’s shoulders are stiff, and Bones whines from the floor, sensing the tension in the room. “I was at school, and then I met Sarah, and we decided to settle here. A bigger town has more opportunities for both of us and our careers.”

It’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, but Cas isn’t satisfied. “And are you still in contact with many people from Sydnam? Your brother, for example.”

Sam is on his feet in an instant, and Cas blinks up at him, startled by the suddenness of the movement. “You think Dean has something to do with this?”

Cas holds up a hand in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. “I’m not suggesting anything. But Ryan’s body was found near his property. I’m merely wondering if Dean mentioned anything recently, anything strange or out of the ordinary.”

“No.” Sam crosses his arms over his chest, glowering at Cas. “We don’t talk that much. Dean likes his privacy.”

“Yes, I’d noticed,” Cas says dryly. 

“You’ve already talked to him?” One of Sam’s eyebrows arches with surprise and interest. “I can’t believe he didn’t throw you off the property.”

“He wasn’t pleased about it,” Cas concedes, “but we did have a brief conversation.”

“Then you should already know that Dean had nothing to do with this.” 

“You say that with an awful lot of certainty, considering you’ve just admitted the two of you don’t speak frequently.”

The air between them crackles with tension, but neither of them drops their gaze. It’s Sarah who makes the first move, rising to her feet and laying a gentle hand on Sam’s arm. “It’s okay,” she says softly. “I’m sure Agent Draper is just following procedure.”

“Right.” Sam laughs, but his eyes are still cold. “If you’re going to stand here and accuse my brother of being somehow involved in Ryan Garland’s death, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Agent.”

“I’m not accusing anyone of anything.” Cas keeps his voice level, but his chin is raised, his shoulders square. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Then I think you’d be better off back in Sydnam,” Sam replies. “If you’re going to find any answers, it’s there, and not from me.”

The worst part is, he’s probably right. Cas has accomplished nothing on this trip, except learning that Sam Winchester is fiercely protective of his brother despite the apparent estrangement between them. And becoming more convinced than ever that they’re both hiding something.

Cas gives him the barest nod, then turns to Sarah with an apologetic smile. “I apologize for taking up your time. I won’t trouble you any longer.”

He turns to leave, but Sam’s voice stops him before he reaches the door. “Agent?”

Cas turns back to face him. “Yes?”

“Leave my brother out of this.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Cas replies. “Have a good day, Sam.”

His hands are shaking, he realizes, as he climbs into his truck. He rests them against the steering wheel and takes a deep breath. When his hands are finally steady, he pulls away and leaves Caribou behind him, but doesn’t immediately turn back towards Sydnam.

Instead, he just drives.

He wants to believe Sam, to believe that Ryan’s body being found on the road leading to the Winchester property is just a coincidence. He refuses to buy in to suspicion and gossip-- just because the Winchesters chose to live outside of town doesn’t make them guilty. But Cas has a great deal of experience reading people, both from hunting and from _before_ , and he knows without a doubt that there’s something murky in the brothers’ past. Something that may or may not have any relevance to Ryan’s death, but is worth investigating regardless.

He should have been been more delicate in his approach. Should have asked Sam more general questions about the town, about growing up there, or kept the focus on Ryan. Up until he mentioned Dean, Sam had been pleasant and forthcoming.

Cas smacks his palm against the steering wheel. “Damn it.” Why couldn’t he have been more patient? Now he’s stuck with more questions than ever and far less likelihood of having them answered.

He hasn’t been paying much attention to where he’s going, and he soon realizes he’s turned off the main highway and onto a smaller, narrower road. He isn’t concerned about getting lost-- the truck has a full tank and GPS has saved him on more than one occasion-- so he continues along, only a few other cars passing in the opposite direction. 

It really is a beautiful part of the country. Though the trees are mostly bare, their warmly coloured leaves having already fallen, the pines stand tall and proud, reaching up into a cloudless blue sky. Cas rolls his window down slightly and breathes in the fresh, crisp air.

He’s heading back towards Sydnam, he realizes as he glances at his phone. Good. Sam was right: it’s the only place he’ll find any answers. If he can’t get them by talking to people, he’ll have to turn to other methods. Fortunately, he has a few at his disposal.

The road curves sharply, then turns into a charming wooden bridge that passes over a rustling creek. On the other side of the bridge is a faded wooden sign that reads _Saint Christopher’s Church, 1 mile_.

He’s almost tempted to turn back. But his curiosity draws him forward. 

The church is abandoned. With a bitter smile, Cas realizes it’s Sunday, and yet there are no cars parked outside the small structure, the lot overgrown with weeds. With the trees all around it and the creek passing close enough that Cas can hear it gurgling, it’s a beautiful spot. A true testament to the wonder and beauty of god’s creation, he might once have thought.

Now he just notes the way the stone walls are crumbling, the way creeping vines have grown over the stained glass windows, which are so coated in dust and grime that their radiant colours are rendered invisible.

He pulls his truck to a stop in front of the church and swings down from the driver’s seat. The lock on the door is rusted out and gives way easily beneath his hand. The door creaks loudly as he pushes it open, and he hears something rustling above his head, likely a bird disturbed by his entrance.

Cas enters the church and is hit with a wave of memory so powerful it nearly knocks him off his feet.

The neat rows of wooden pews, the wide processional aisle between them. The confessional booths tucked into the back corner, one door sagging off its hinges. At the opposite end, the altar, with the crucifix hanging above it. 

It must have been beautiful, this place. It still is.

Slowly, he makes his way up the aisle, trailing a hand over the back of the pews as he goes. It comes away gritty and darkened by dust, but he doesn’t care. He can imagine what the wood must have looked like, gleaming and polished, a solid backing for the people who filled this room. 

He reaches the front of the church and stares at the altar for a long moment before turning his back to it and facing out towards the pews. It must have been an incredible experience, delivering a sermon from here. The sunlight trickles in through the windows despite the grime, and there’s a draft coming from somewhere, likely where the wall has crumbled enough to let in the breeze. 

There would have been a thriving community here at one point. Every one of these pews would have been filled, bright, eager faces turned towards the pulpit. Cas can picture it, all those voices raised together in prayer, in song, in perfect harmony. And one voice, speaking alone, leading them all. Yes, it would have been a wondrous place. A place Cas would have dearly loved.

Saint Christopher. Patron saint of travelers. How appropriate that this tiny church in the middle of nowhere be named for him. How appropriate that Castiel find it now. 

Tears burn in the back of his eyes, and he scrubs a hand roughly across his face. He has a job to do. This is no time for distractions. He never should have stopped here. Taking one last look at the altar, Cas’ attention is drawn to the window to its right, more caked with dust and grime than any of the others. Frowning, he moves closer to examine it.

Brushing aside the heavy layers of dirt, Cas nearly stumbles back in surprise as the image is uncovered. Rather than showing Saint Christopher in his usual pose, this window depicts a robed figure with the head of a dog-- or a wolf.

It’s an old story, one Cas distantly remembers. That before his encounter with Christ, Saint Christopher’s life of sin caused him to turn into a creature half-man, half-animal, only changing back to human form after embracing the word of god. Ancient Christians were known to show the saint in his former state as a reminder of the perils of living a life of sin, but such depictions have fallen out of practice.

Its presence here, in an area where Cas is tracking a werewolf, sends a shiver of dread through his body. With the sunlight spilling through it now, the image has a certain magnetism, and it takes great effort for Cas to wrench his gaze away and turn to leave.

He closes the door gently behind himself and walks away without looking back. But deep in his heart, he knows this isn’t the last time he’ll find himself here.

***

Cas is back in Sydnam by mid-afternoon, determined to make at least some progress today. He stops at the diner for a cup of coffee, noting that Elizabeth is back behind the counter. She greets him politely, her smile less strained than the last time he saw her, but there are still dark shadows under her eyes. Feeling guilty for reasons he can’t even explain, Cas asks for his coffee to go.

He sets up his laptop and the files from the sheriff’s department at the table in his motel room, changing out of his suit and into a comfortable sweater and jeans. His thoughts keep circling back to one question: what is it about that road that makes it so fascinating? Is it the little house, or the people who live in it?

With a few quick searches, he’s able to pull up information on the house currently occupied by Dean Winchester. It’s still in John Winchester’s name, and before that, it belonged to someone by the name of Elkins. The name doesn’t sound familiar, so Cas starts to move on, but then the date on the page catches his eye.

The house was purchased by John Winchester more than thirty years ago. But from what everyone in town said of the Winchesters, they’d only moved there sixteen years ago.

Why buy a house in the woods in Maine and then not live there for years? Why move back after all that time?

Frowning, Cas does a few basic searches, the kind he’s become accustomed to doing over the past few years. As far as he can tell, there are no graveyards nearby, no record of anyone having died in that house. Nothing to explain the sense of otherness that hangs over that road. 

Elkins’ name proves a dead end as well. He was a single man who built the house for himself after he retired and sold it to John Winchester when he couldn’t manage the upkeep anymore. He’s been dead for years now, and has no living relatives.

Cas sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. There’s a headache forming behind his temples, and he should probably eat something before continuing his research. Getting to his feet, he’s about to pull on a jacket and head out in search of food when there’s a knock at his door.

Startled, he reaches for his gun, but it’s in his bag. He crosses the room noiselessly and picks it up, then presses his face to the door, expecting to see Roger or one of the cleaning staff.

Instead, he sees Dean Winchester.

He puts the gun back down before opening the door. As mysterious and irritable as Dean is, Cas doesn’t think he’s in any danger. Not tonight, anyway. 

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” he says, voice heavy with sarcasm, as he ushers Dean inside. “To what do I owe the honour, Mr. Winchester?”

He looks strange here. Out of place, with his scruffy beard glinting red in the harsh motel lighting and his broad shoulders held stiffly back. And he’s angry. That much is clear.

“Heard you paid a visit to my brother today,” Dean says. His voice is quiet, but his eyes are coldly furious. “You had no right.”

“I had every right,” Cas replies calmly. “I was just gathering information, Mr. Winchester. I was there half an hour at the most. I don’t believe I caused your brother or his fiancée any lasting distress.”

He pauses, then narrows his eyes. “How did you know I went to speak to Sam, anyway?”

Dean lets out an inelegant snort. “He called me, of course. Warned me that you were snooping around, asking questions.”

Interesting. Sam had admitted that he and Dean don’t speak frequently, and yet he felt it necessary to warn his brother that Cas had paid him a visit. 

“How touching. I was under the impression the two of you were somewhat estranged, but it’s clear there’s devotion there.” Cas lifts a cool eyebrow at Dean. “Or is it just mutual commitment to keeping me in the dark about something?”

Dean makes an angry gesture, but Cas doesn’t flinch. “Why are you so determined to see me as the bad guy here, Agent?”

Cas almost laughs. Instead, he holds up a hand, ticking off the reasons as he counts them down. “Let me see. You’re the only person who lives near where the body was found. You readily admit that you have no alibi for your whereabouts the night Ryan Garland died. You claim to have heard or seen nothing suspicious, but you’re incredibly defensive, and so is your brother, which only makes you look guiltier. I don’t want to see you as the bad guy, Mr. Winchester. I want to rule this a tragic accident and let Ryan’s family grieve in peace. But there are things that don’t add up about this whole situation, and you’re one of them.”

“I told you I had nothing to do with Ryan dying.” Dean’s hands are clenched tightly at his side. “How much does this job take out of you, Agent, that you can’t just _believe_ me?”

Taking an involuntary step back, Cas presses his lips tightly together. “Everything,” he says quietly. “It takes everything out of me, Mr. Winchester.”

A curious expression comes over Dean’s face. For a moment-- just a moment-- his eyes soften, and his hands relax to hang easily at his side. His mouth opens, but then closes again, and he laughs without a trace a humour. “God, you’re a cold one. Probably makes you pretty good at your job, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Cas agrees. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Mr. Winchester, with or without your cooperation. If you have anything to say to me, anything that can help your case or give me somewhere to look that isn’t you and your family, this would be a good time to tell me.”

Dean stares at him, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “No,” he says eventually. “No, I don’t have anything else to say.”

“Then I suggest you leave.” Cas gestures towards the table with all his notes spread across it. “As you can see, I’m working.”

“Leave my brother out of this,” Dean says, turning back towards the door. “You have questions, you bring them to me. Sam’s out. He doesn’t need to be part of this.”

“Are you saying you’ll answer my questions? I admit, that’s a surprise.” 

“If it means you leave Sam alone, then fine.” Dean glares at him over his shoulder. “He doesn’t know anything.”

“And you do?” Cas asks quietly.

Dean starts to say something, then shakes his head. It’s not an angry movement. Maybe more resigned. “You know where to find me.”

“I do,” Cas agrees. “You’re well-known for not leaving your home often, Mr. Winchester. I should be flattered, I suppose, that you thought it important enough to drop by tonight.”

Dean’s shoulders stiffen, but he doesn’t turn around. A few seconds later, the door slams behind him. Crossing over to the window, Cas watches as a beat-up old truck goes screeching out of the parking lot, and he lets out a shaky breath.

He suspects he’s going to be seeing a lot of Dean Winchester as this case unfolds. And he can’t deny there’s a small, secret part of him that’s pleased at the thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The connection between Saint Christopher and werewolves is one I was completely unaware of when I chose him for the name of the church. I was merely thinking he worked thematically as the patron saint of travelers. But whichstiel found [this article](https://aleteia.org/2017/11/25/did-the-werewolf-legend-start-with-st-christopher/) while looking for reference pics for the church, and how could I resist folding that little tidbit in? So thanks again, whichstiel, for your fantastic research.


	6. Chapter 6

On Monday morning, Cas heads into town to check in at the sheriff’s station and see how things are developing from their point of view. Nancy greets him with a shy smile and waves him back towards Donna’s office. The door is open, but Cas still raps his knuckles against the frame to get her attention before entering.

She looks up with a sunny smile already on her face. “Good morning, Agent Draper!”

“Hello, Donna.” Cas takes a seat at the desk and props his chin on his hands, looking at the mess of papers on her desk. “Anything new to share?”

Her smile fades. “Nothing,” she says, shaking her head. “I know you’re just doing your job, Agent, but I don’t think there’s anything for you here.”

She might be right. But Cas can’t take that chance. So he sighs and leans forward, lowering his voice. “Can I tell you a secret, Sheriff Hanscum?”

Donna’s eyes light up with interest, and she nods eagerly.

“We knew it was probably just an animal attack when my supervisors sent me here,” he says. “But they’re not too pleased with me right now, after my last investigation, and I think they’re punishing me for it. Letting me cool off in the wilds of Maine. You know how those types can be.”

“A bunch of stuffed shirts, if you ask me,” Donna replies, frowning. “Is that why you don’t have a partner with you?”

Cas smiles and breathes an inward sigh of relief. “Exactly.”

“Well.” Donna gives him a conspiratorial wink, her smile back in place. “We’ll be happy to let you sniff around here, then, Agent, until your period of disgrace has ended. Their loss is our gain.”

“You’re too kind.” Cas drums his fingers on the surface of her desk, making a swift decision. “I was thinking of heading out to the woods near where Ryan’s body was found. Would you like to join me?”

“Absolutely. Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t get lost out there.” Donna grabs her jacket off the back of her chair and lets Cas precede her out of the office, locking the door behind them. “I’m going out to the woods with Agent Draper,” she tells Nancy as they leave. “Shouldn’t be gone more than a few hours.”

“Okay, boss.” Nancy smiles up at her, affection clear in her eyes. “We’ll call you if we need you.”

“You have a good team in there,” Cas comments as Donna leads them to her truck. 

“I sure do.” Donna slides behind the wheel and gives Cas a stern look when he doesn’t immediately reach for his seatbelt. “Buckle up, Agent.”

Cas complies, hiding his grin. “This isn’t the sort of thing you normally deal with, is it?”

Donna takes a moment to reply, and while that could be excused by her focusing on the road, Cas doesn’t think that’s the case. “No,” she says eventually. “Everyone in town is a bit shaken up, you know? We lose people all the time, Agent, but usually we just lose them to bigger towns and bigger dreams. Not like this.”

It reminds Cas of what Sam said, about there being more opportunities in Caribou. “Like you lost Sam Winchester?” he asks carefully. 

Donna glances at him, eyes wide. “That’s a good example. But how do you know Sam, Agent?”

“I spoke to him yesterday,” Cas replies. “Just a routine visit.”

She doesn’t press the issue, but Cas catches her giving him a few more curious glances as they drive, and the conversation falters after that.

They leave the truck at the side of the main road and enter the woods on foot. They both pause for a moment at the spot where Ryan was found, and Cas thinks he sees Donna’s lips move in a silent prayer before they continue. 

“Did you grow up here, Sheriff?” he asks as they venture deeper into the forest. 

“Born and raised,” she answers. “And I thought I told you to call me Donna.”

“My apologies, Donna.” She gives him a broad smile, and the strange tension between them dissipates. “So you must know these woods fairly well.”

“I’d say so.” She pats the trunk of a nearby tree fondly. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

It’s a markedly different attitude than that of someone like Sam Winchester or some of the other young people in town. Sydnam is a town of sharp contradictions: those who want to stay forever, and those who can’t wait to leave. Cas wonders which camp Ryan Garland fell into.

There’s no real path through the woods, but there are spots where they can weave their way through the dense growth, pushing aside branches as they go. It’s beautiful, and the crisp air is quiet around them aside from the occasional bird call or small animal rustling in the undergrowth. But there’s something watchful about the very calm of it all, something that makes Cas shiver despite the wool sweater he’d layered under his usual trench coat this morning. Donna, unperturbed, keeps up a light conversation, telling Cas stories of growing up with two older brothers and a younger sister, all the adventures they used to get up to. 

“In these woods?” Cas asks. 

She shakes her head. “Not exactly around here. More on the other side of town, closer to the houses. That’s where most of the kids go to play.”

It only serves to highlight how unusual a place this was for Ryan to be on the night he died. Cas purses his lips and shakes his head, frustrated by the gaps in their knowledge. 

In the distance, Cas can hear a rhythmic noise, but it’s too far off for him to identify it. He turns to Donna with a questioning eyebrow raised. “Is that trouble?”

“Depends on your definition of trouble,” she replies, lips forming a tight line. 

It isn’t really an answer, but Cas follows Donna nonetheless as she turns towards the source of the noise. It grows louder as they approach, and soon Cas recognizes it as the sound of an axe hitting wood. But there’s no one out here except--

Except Dean Winchester.

The trees thin out into the clearing around the Winchester house. They’ve approached from the back, where Dean is working his way through an enormous pile of firewood, the heavy thud of his axe sending chunks of wood splintering off as he systematically divides it into smaller pieces. Despite the chill in the air, he’s dressed only in jeans and a red and black plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up so as not to restrict his movements. Cas’ gaze is drawn to the muscles flexing in his bare forearms as he hefts the axe once more, and he looks away immediately, irritated at the surge of lust that rises in his body.

A twig snaps beneath his foot, and Dean looks up at the noise, eyes narrowing as he takes in Cas and Donna walking towards him. He tosses the axe over one shoulder in a gesture that’s clearly calculated to look casual, but makes no move to greet them. Nor does he immediately bark at them to get off his property, though, which Cas counts as a victory.

“Morning, Dean,” Donna calls, her sunny smile firmly in place. “Getting ready for the winter there?”

Dean just nods. His expression is blank, no traces of Donna’s warmth but no apparent hostility either. His gaze slides over to Cas, and something flares in his eyes for a brief moment before they go neutral again.

He doesn’t ask them what they’re doing, but Cas feels compelled to explain regardless. “We’ve just been taking a stroll through the woods, looking for anything that might have been missed on earlier searches.”

At that, Dean folds his arms across his chest and glowers at Cas. “Let me guess. You want to search around here too.”

“No, no,” Donna cuts in, her tone gentle. “We just figured we’d let you know we were out here. I know you don’t like surprise visitors.”

Dean’s gaze shifts back to her, and for a brief second, there’s a piercing longing evident on his face. Then he nods stiffly again and swings his axe back down over his shoulder and onto the chunk of wood waiting on the block.

It’s as clear a dismissal as Cas has ever seen.

Donna places a soft hand on his elbow and guides him back towards the woods. Cas risks one backwards glance, but Dean isn’t looking at them, all his attention focused on the wood he’s chopping. There’s something sad about the sight of him, alone in that clearing in the middle of the woods, and Cas turns away with a lump in his throat.

“Do you know him well?” he asks Donna as they move farther away from the Winchester house. 

She shakes her head, her eyes distant. “No,” she replies. “He was a few years behind me in school, so I saw him around, but even then, the Winchester boys kept to themselves.”

“What was he like?” Cas has a hard time imagining a younger Dean, one with softer features and narrower shoulders and maybe without that look of empty misery in the depths of his eyes. Or maybe that was always there.

“Quiet,” Donna answers. “Always polite with the teachers, from what I remember, and so good with his brother, even though most kids around here liked to pretend their younger siblings didn’t exist most of the time. But not Dean. He always took care of Sam.”

“And their father?”

Donna bites at her lower lip before replying. “John Winchester didn’t spend much time in town. Didn’t talk much, either. It must have been tough for him, raising those boys on his own, but I never saw him look at another woman. Still wore his wedding ring and all. And then one day, he was just gone.”

It fits with what Cas has been told before, but he senses there’s more that Donna isn’t telling him. “That must have been difficult for Dean. He was what, only twenty at the time?”

“Around there,” Donna says with a nod. “All the older ladies in town shook their heads and said what a shame it was, the way he refused any of their offers to help. Honestly, I think more than a few of them still hold grudges from back then.”

“But not you?”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Me? No, of course not. I think he did the best he could under awful circumstances, and truth be told, I’ve always felt a bit sorry for the poor man. He keeps himself apart, no matter how many times we try to invite him into the town life. I don’t understand why he would want to live out here, all by his lonesome, but even if I can’t understand it, I do my best to respect it.”

Though there’s no hint of a rebuke in her words, Cas feels a sting of guilt. He’s been assigning so much blame to Dean simply because of his reclusiveness, and it really isn’t fair. But he still can’t shake the feeling that there’s something the Winchester brothers aren’t telling him, something about the reasons they came here and the reasons Sam left and Dean stayed.

Something he needs to figure out, even if only for his own peace of mind.

“Does Dean talk to anyone in town?” he asks.

Donna lets out a little laugh. “Not really, from what I can tell. The only person I’ve ever seen him say more than a few words to at the same time is Benny.”

Cas frowns. “Benny from the diner?” It seems an odd combination, but then again, Cas did encounter Dean for the first time outside the diner. If he’s a regular customer there, it stands to reason that he and Benny might have developed a rapport of sorts. And Elizabeth had told him the same thing, when she first mentioned Dean-- that he was closer to her uncle than he was to her.

“Yep,” Donna answers. “Not sure they’re friends, exactly, not by the way I’d reckon a friendship, but still.”

Cas pushes aside another branch, holding it out of the way so it doesn’t snap back and hit Donna. She grins at him as she passes, then comes to a sudden stop, one arm flying out to prevent Cas from going further.

He immediately reaches for the gun at his waist, eyes scanning the dense forest ahead of them. “What is it?” he asks, voice pitched low. “Is there something out there?”

A very small part of him hopes there is. Hopes they’ve stumbled across a bear or a mountain lion, something that could have plausibly mauled Ryan to death. But Donna just extends a shaky hand, pointing down towards the ground a few feet ahead of them.

Half-buried under a bush, Cas can see the sleeve of a brown and green plaid shirt.

Donna steps forward, pulling a pair of gloves out of her jacket and sliding them on. Cas follows quietly behind as she snaps a few pictures on her cell phone before crouching down and tugging the shirt free. They both let out quiet noises of dismay as it comes free, revealing an enormous bloodstain down the front of the material. 

“You think this belonged to Ryan?” Cas asks. 

Donna stares at it for a moment, then slowly shakes her head. “No. He was still fully clothed when we found him, though it was all torn up. This--” she indicates the shirt dangling loosely in one of her hands-- “this came off somebody else.”

She doesn’t go so far as to say it, but Cas can fill in the missing words easily enough. “It came off whoever killed him.”

Her eyes meet his, a terrible grief in them. “I don’t think we’re dealing with an animal attack, Agent.”

“Neither do I.”

***

They call the discovery in to the station, and it isn’t long before two young deputies come crashing through the woods towards them. Cas has seen them around the station, but this is the first time he’s officially meeting Deputy Tran and Deputy Fitzgerald, or Kevin and Garth, as they insist on being called. Garth lets out a low whistle at the sight of the shirt, shaking his head from side to side, while Kevin’s eyes go wide as the implications of their discovery sink in.

“There’s no way this isn’t related to Ryan’s death, is there?” he asks.

“No,” Cas replies. “Both the timing and the location are too close to be a coincidence.”

Kevin takes proper pictures from a variety of angles, then Garth carefully places the bloodstained shirt in a clear evidence bag, holding it some distance away from himself. “Do any of you recognize it?” Cas asks.

They all shake their heads. “Sorry, Agent,” Garth says, “but around here, almost everyone’s got a shirt just like that.”

Cas nods, but he’s remembering a line of plaid shirts hung out to dry beside a small cabin in a clearing not far from here. “Donna,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly, “are we still on Winchester property here?”

He’s met with blank stares from all three of his companions.

“We might be,” Donna says slowly, “right on the edge of it, anyway.”

Looking back over his shoulder, Cas tries to form a map in his mind. If the killer ran off into the woods, they could have taken a slightly circuitous route and ended up here. Or they could have passed the Winchester property, stopped, realized they were covered in blood, and come back into the woods to dispose of the evidence.

“Agent.” Donna’s eyes are wide, one hand pressed to her chest. “You don’t think Dean had anything to do with this?”

Sighing heavily, Cas doesn’t meet her eyes. “He doesn’t have an alibi for the night Ryan Garland died. He claims to have been home all night and not to have heard or seen anything unusual. But he’s the only one out here, and I’ve found him-- evasive, to put it mildly.”

“You really think Dean Winchester killed Ryan?” Kevin asks. “But why?”

Cas shakes his head, staring off into the trees, the phantom sound of an axe hitting wood playing in his mind. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

They drive back into town in uneasy silence, Cas and Donna in one truck and Garth and Kevin in the other. Nancy looks up with a grim expression as they enter the station, her eyes immediately drawn to the evidence bag in Garth’s hand. She swallows nervously, and Donna pauses to lay a gentle hand on her shoulder before continuing towards her office.

“This is going to cause a lot of talk,” she announces as she drops into her chair, gesturing Cas into the other. “People were already on edge, thinking there might be a bear or cougar roaming around out there. But a murderer?” She shakes her head, chewing nervously on her bottom lip. “And poor Camille. Bad enough to lose her son, but to lose him this way--”

“I’m going to find out who did this,” Cas tells her. 

She shakes her head. “No, Agent. _We’re_ going to find out who did this.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, her fierce determination brings a small smile to Cas’ face, and he nods. “This changes everything,” he says. “We need to look into who would have a reason to want Ryan Garland dead.”

Donna blows her hair out of her face and frowns. “But that’s just it, Agent. I can’t think of a single person who would want to hurt Ryan, let alone do something like this to him.” She pauses, shuddering. “A fight, or a hit and run, that kind of thing I could maybe understand. But to slash him up like that, and his heart--”

Cas wishes he could tell her it still could have been an accident, that a werewolf kill always looks like that no matter whether the victim was chosen at random or targeted for a specific reason. But unless it becomes absolutely necessary, he’s not going to drag Donna into the darkness of his world. It will be good to have her support and her knowledge of the town and its people as they investigate, but some questions Cas will have to ask himself.

And the first place he’s going to start is back at Dean Winchester’s house.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean isn’t home.

Or if he is, he’s ignoring Cas’ persistent knocking on his door. Cas wouldn’t put it past him, Dean’s hostility towards him being well-established by this point, but one thing he would not call Dean Winchester is unintelligent. Dean would surely know that hiding from Cas would only make him look worse. 

Cas blows out a frustrated breath, preparing to turn back and try again later, but pauses with his hand on the rail of the small porch. He’s been thinking like an actual federal agent, bound by procedure and propriety. Hunters have no such limits placed on them.

If Dean is hiding something, this is the perfect time for Cas to investigate.

He does another circuit of the house and the clearing around it just to be sure, peering in the garage windows and listening intently for any hint of activity. He hears nothing, so he picks the padlock on the garage door and eases it open as quietly as he can. 

The first thing he notices is a sheet-covered vehicle further back in the gloom. Curious, he pulls back the material, revealing the gleaming black surface of an older but beautifully maintained Chevrolet Impala. Cas runs an appreciative hand over its hood, then quickly wipes the surface with the edge of his shirt to remove any marks he might have left. Why would Dean keep such a beauty locked away here and drive that horrible old truck instead?

Shaking his head, he gently places the cover back over the car and turns away. The rest of the garage appears to be devoted to storage, assorted tools and outdoor gear neatly arranged on shelves. Cas pokes around a bit but finds nothing to suggest any nefarious purpose.

Scowling to himself, he locks the door behind him and waits another few minutes, listening for the sound of an approaching engine, before heading back towards the house. The lock gives easily under Cas’ practiced hand, and he tenses as he pushes the door open, hoping Dean is indeed gone and not waiting on the other side of the door to attack Cas with either words or fists.

The house is silent in the way only unoccupied buildings can be.

Cas breathes a sigh of relief and pauses to take in his surroundings. The house is small, but it’s cozy without being cramped. An open living area and kitchen space greet him, and he can see a few open doors down the hall that must lead to bedrooms and a bathroom. Everything is tidy and clean, only a few indications that someone actually lives here: an empty coffee mug in the sink, one tattered book lying on the couch. 

There’s a large stack of neatly chopped firewood beside the fireplace, and it brings a small smile to Cas’ face, remembering the way Dean had chopped it so determinedly earlier in the day. On the wall closest to the door is a beautiful bookcase built right into the cabin wall, and it’s there that Cas directs his attention.

The books range from classics to newer science fiction and fantasy, a few graphic novels and coffee table books thrown in. But even more than the books, Cas is drawn to the framed photographs that occupy one shelf, right at eye level. A family of four clustered around the car he had seen in the garage, all with broad smiles on their faces, even the chubby-cheeked baby in the blonde woman’s arms. Later, two young boys, a tall dark-haired man with his arms around both of them, and then the two boys on their own in front of this very house. 

Cas looks away, guilt settling in his chest like a lead weight. He may have every reason to be suspicious of Dean, but prying into family memories is something he’s never been comfortable with, even when it’s necessary.

Leaving the living room behind, he pushes open the doors at the back of the house. One is a small but spotlessly clean bathroom, another a closet packed with sheets and blankets and assorted household items, and the last two are bedrooms. The larger of the two contains a queen-sized bed and a wooden dresser, no other personal items evident. It looks like it hasn’t been used in years. The smaller room contains a double bed, neatly made but with a man’s t-shirt tossed across it like its owner had changed his mind at the last minute and decided to wear something else. 

This must be Dean’s room, then. Cas glances nervously at the front of the house as he pokes around, trying to be as quick as possible while also being careful not to disturb anything and rouse suspicion. 

He finds nothing incriminating in the small nightstand, just a faded photograph of the same blonde woman from the picture on the bookshelf. She must be Dean’s mother. There’s a strong resemblance between them, especially in the eyes, and Cas handles the photo with care, placing it back exactly where he found it. In the closet is a veritable army of plaid shirts, much like the one they found in the woods earlier. Unfortunately, a fondness for plaid is more likely a town by-law than it is an indication of guilt. 

There’s nothing at all about this room or this house that implicates Dean in Ryan’s death. Cas doesn’t know whether to be frustrated or relieved.

Mostly so he can tell himself he’s being thorough, he goes through the cabinets in the bathroom and the kitchen as well. There’s nothing of interest there, but the freezer is packed to the brim with neatly labelled plastic containers, all sorts of food in single-sized portions. Cas closes the freezer door and his eyes at the same time, shutting out the sadness the image provokes, but it’s now etched in his mind. As he looks around the rest of the house, what first seemed like tidiness carries an edge of desperation, what seemed like minimalism now looks like punishment. There’s not a speck of dust to be seen, but loneliness hangs heavy in the air, filling Cas’ lungs and clouding his eyes.

If he had a place to call home, Cas suspects, it would look a lot like this.

It’s difficult to continue searching after that, and he knows he shouldn’t linger, lest Dean return suddenly and discover him here. Cas carefully locks the door again but doesn’t immediately leave the property. While he’s here, he might as well take a quick look around the woods nearby. If Dean catches him there, he can claim confusion over the property line easily enough.

He doesn’t really know what he’s looking for. Another bloody shirt? Other abandoned pieces of clothing? Some sort of evidence that can be used to persuade Dean to talk, at least. But he finds nothing. There’s a trail of sorts, or at least some ground that is more packed down than the rest, and he follows it for a while, heading deeper and deeper into the woods. Eventually, he gives up and turns back the way he came, pushing branches out of his way with bad-tempered force.

Cas draws up short when he returns to the clearing around the Winchester house and sees Dean’s truck parked outside. 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. Running a hand through his hair, he emerges from the trees, doing his best to project a confidence he doesn’t feel. Dean is standing on the porch, arms crossed over his chest, watching Cas approach with an unreadable look on his face.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Winchester,” Cas greets once he’s within speaking distance. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

“Sure,” Dean replies. “You can start by telling me what you’re doing snooping around my property.”

Cas mimics Dean’s posture and levels a stern glare at him. “I am not _snooping_.”

Not at this moment, anyway.

“Whatever.” Dean sighs and gestures lazily to the house. “I can tell you’re in a mood, so let’s get this over with.”

It isn’t the warmest of invitations, but it’s a start. Cas follows Dean into the house and takes a seat on the couch while Dean drops into the lone armchair, one hand propped under his chin. “So. What are you doing here, Agent Draper?”

“We’ve found new evidence connected to the death of Ryan Garland,” he says, carefully watching Dean’s face for any sign of distress. “It’s now being treated as a homicide.”

Something flickers in Dean’s eyes, but it doesn’t look like guilt. Dean sighs and tips his head back against the chair, watching Cas warily. “That’s pretty crappy. Poor kid.”

His sadness seems genuine, but it isn’t enough. “We found a bloody shirt in the woods,” he continues, and at that, Dean raises his head again, lips tightening. “Not far from the boundaries of your land, Mr. Winchester.”

“You think it belonged to Ryan?”

“No.” Cas shakes his head. “We think it belongs to whoever killed him.”

There’s a brief, tense silence, and then Dean nods slowly. “And you think that’s me.”

“I think you have no alibi for your whereabouts that night, and you’re the only person with reason to be nearby,” Cas corrects him. “I think you’re hiding something, and I think Ryan and his family deserve justice.”

“I don’t disagree with you there.” Dean exhales noisily and rises to his feet, pacing around the small room. “I know you’re just doing your job, Agent, but I’m telling you, I didn’t kill Ryan. You’re wasting your time here, and while you do, whoever did is laughing behind your back.”

Stung, Cas stands as well. “Give me one good reason to focus my attention elsewhere, Mr. Winchester, and perhaps I’ll reconsider.”

Without realizing it, he’s waltzed right into Dean’s personal space, mere inches between them. This close, Cas can smell the fresh air and woodsmoke that lingers on Dean’s clothing, a heady scent that makes him want to lean closer yet. Dean’s eyes are stormy as they look down on him, his colour heightened, and beneath the flush and the scruff on his cheeks, Cas notices a faint scattering of freckles.

He takes a hasty step back but doesn’t break eye contact. “You’re asking me to trust you. So tell me why I should.”

“I lied,” Dean says abruptly. 

Cas blinks at him. “Generally speaking, admitting to lying isn’t the best way to earn a person’s trust.”

Dean lets out a short laugh and shrugs. “Well, you already knew I was lying, didn’t you? I’m taking a risk, confirming it.”

He has a point. Cas raises an eyebrow at him and sits back down. “What exactly were you lying about?”

“Where I was the night Ryan died.”

Somehow, that isn’t the answer Cas had been expecting. He takes a moment to recover, then says, “Go on.”

Dean walks over to the window, looking out onto his yard. In profile, the perfect lines of his face are even more stark. “I wasn’t here. I was out in the woods.”

“Doing what?” It can’t be easy for Dean, admitting the truth, but his brief answers are only adding to Cas’ frustration. “It might be more efficient to give me more than the most basic reply without further prompting, Mr. Winchester.”

Turning back to look at him, Dean grimaces. “I’m trying, okay?”

Cas holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Please, continue.”

“I was just out, walking. I do that sometimes. And before you ask, no, I was in the opposite direction of the main road. I didn’t hear or see anyone else.”

It’s no more convincing a story than his earlier insistence that he had been home alone all night, but why bother making up a second unverifiable explanation for his whereabouts? Frowning, Cas looks at him, the tension in his shoulders and the unhappy set of his mouth, and comes up with nothing. 

“You were just out walking,” he repeats. “In the middle of the night, in November.”

He’s treated to an exaggerated eye-roll. “Yes.”

From anyone else, it would be an absolutely absurd statement, but considering Dean’s clear preference for trees to people, it makes a certain amount of sense. Cas sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “How long were you gone?”

Dean narrows his eyes as though he isn’t quite sure that Cas believes him, but answers anyway. “A few hours. From about eleven to maybe one, one-thirty.”

They haven’t determined the exact time of Ryan’s death. Cas makes a mental note to shuffle that higher onto their priority list. He drums his fingers on the arm of the chair and continues to gaze at Dean. “So why didn’t you tell me this when I first asked?”

“Because it sounds suspicious as fuck, and we both know it,” Dean shoots back.

“But now you’re telling me, because you think a suspicious truth is more convincing than a suspicious lie?” Cas’ head hurts. He’s not really an FBI agent, he’s just playing one, and he’d really prefer if they could skip ahead to the part where he tracks and kills the monster instead of this endless interrogation. He thought he was long past having to patiently guide people through confessing their darkest secrets. 

“Something like that, yeah.”

Cas exhales slowly and rubs a hand over his face. “So you’re changing your story about where you were that night, but you still maintain you had nothing to do with the murder.”

“Yes.” Dean’s voice rings with conviction, and for a brief second, Cas almost believes him. 

But belief doesn’t come easily to him. Not anymore.

He rises to his feet, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. “Very well. I regret to inform you, Mr. Winchester, that your case is far from compelling. We will be doing further investigation in light of the new evidence, and I’ll likely be disturbing your doorstep once again.”

One corner of Dean’s mouth curls up. “Can’t wait.”

Cas nearly stumbles on his way out the door, despite the clear sarcasm with which the words are said. He’s glad his back is turned so Dean can’t see the flush he can feel rising in his cheeks. 

Before he can reach the door, Dean calls out after him. “Talk to Benny.”

Turning, Cas frowns at him. “Benny?”

“At the diner.” Cas continues to frown, and Dean makes an impatient gesture with his hands. “I talked to him earlier that night. Told him I was going to go out. He’ll back me up.”

“Intent does not necessarily equal action,” Cas replies.

Dean shrugs. “Maybe not. But I told you before, Agent, you’re wasting your time on me. Do I want to get you off my back? Absolutely. But I also want you to catch whoever the hell did this.”

“And how do I know you aren’t just going to call Benny the minute I leave and ask him to corroborate your story?” 

At that, Dean laughs. It’s short, and still somewhat mocking, but it’s a beautiful sound regardless. “I guess you’re just going to have to trust me.”

Cas doesn’t know how to answer that, so he just nods sharply and pulls the door closed behind himself.

His truck is cold inside after the warmth of Dean’s little house, and Cas sits there for a minute, considering his next move. He needs to learn more about Ryan’s movements on the day of his death, and the best person to discuss them with would probably be his former roommate. But what Dean said about Benny also weighs on his mind, and as if on cue, his stomach rumbles, reminding him it’s been hours since he last ate. The diner it is, then.

Once again, the place is packed, but Cas manages to find an empty stool at the counter. He can see Elizabeth bustling around the booths, but as he hoped, Benny is behind the counter, pouring coffee and taking orders with an efficiency Cas admires. He waits patiently to be noticed, and within minutes, there’s a hot cup of coffee in front of him and a welcoming smile on Benny’s face.

“What can we get for you today, Agent?”

“A club sandwich and fries, please.” Cas returns the smile. “And a few moments of your time, when you can spare it.”

Benny casts a practiced eye at the line of people seated at the counter. “Sure thing, brother. We’ll get that food right out for you, and I’ll drop back over when I can.”

Cas tries to relax as he waits for his food, but now that his doubts about Dean’s involvement in the murder are being slowly complicated, everyone else has become a potential suspect. The diner is a perfect distillation of the town: everyone seemingly comfortable with one another, warm and friendly and caring. But somebody in this town is a cold-blooded killer, and they could be here in this room even now.

His sandwich is dropped off in front of him, and Cas eats mechanically as he continues to observe the people around him. The news about Ryan’s death being considered a homicide hasn’t yet gone public, and Cas suspects the mood would be considerably more grim if that were known. 

He’s interrupted from his thoughts by Benny pausing in front of him, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “You wanted to talk to me, Agent?”

Cas puts down his sandwich and gives Benny his full attention. “Yes. Mr. Lafitte, I’d like to ask you a few questions about the night Ryan Garland died.”

Benny’s eyes widen as he rests his elbows on the counter, lowering his voice as he leans in closer so as not to be overheard. “Of course, Agent. How can I help you?”

“Can you confirm that you spoke to Dean Winchester on the phone that evening?”

Benny blinks in confusion, a trace of a frown on his normally good-natured face. “Sure I did. But what does that have to do with--” Understanding dawns in his eyes and he lets out a murmured oath. “You don’t think Dean had anything to do with that, do you?”

Cas is, frankly, getting sick of hearing those words. “Yes, I do,” he replies tightly. “Which is why I’m asking you about it.”

Benny raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Yeah, I talked to Dean that night. Must have been around eight o’clock.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Nothing like killing an innocent kid,” Benny says. His voice is level, but there’s a coldness in his gaze that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. For all his cooperation, he’s clearly displeased about the line of Cas’ questioning. “I saw him earlier when he stopped in for lunch and he looked like he was having a rough day, so I called to check in on him.”

Cas frowns, remembering what both Elizabeth and Donna had said about them being friends, but still not particularly close. “Is that normal, for the two of you?”

“Not exactly.” At Cas’ inquisitive look, Benny sighs and explains. “Look. Me and Dean, we had a thing a while back. Nothing serious, and it’s over now, but I still care about him.”

“Oh,” is all Cas can say.

It’s the wrong response. Benny arches an eyebrow and straightens up to his full height, crossing his arms over his threateningly broad chest. “Is that going to be a problem, Agent?”

“No, no,” Cas says hastily. “Of course not. My apologies. It’s simply new information.”

New information that may or may not have caused his foolish heart to leap in his chest. Cas coughs awkwardly and says, “I didn’t get the impression Mr. Winchester cultivated personal relationships of any sort.”

At that, Benny relaxes, a soft smile creeping back onto his face. “That’s fair. And you’re right, Dean’s not the most open guy, and for good reason. But he’s not a killer, Agent Draper.”

It’s a telling addition, that _for good reason_.Cas frowns, but keeps his focus on the topic at hand. “Let’s return to your conversation that night. You said Dean looked like he had been having a rough day. Did he talk about that at all?”

“Not really.” Benny shakes his head fondly. “Getting answers out of Dean is like pulling teeth sometimes, especially when it’s anything remotely personal.”

“Yes, I’m well acquainted with the experience,” Cas says dryly.

Benny laughs. “Then you can probably imagine how my concern was received. We didn’t talk long. I told him to drop by again soon so I could check in on him, he said he’d probably go out for a walk to clear his head and hopefully it would pass by morning.”

Just like Dean said. He did tell Benny about his plans to go out into the woods that night. “Does Mr. Winchester make a habit of going for late night walks alone in the woods, to your knowledge?”

His laughter dying on his lips, Benny tilts his head to the side. “Now and then. Is that relevant, Agent?”

“You never know.” Cas gives a small shrug. “Anything else you can tell me about that night?”

Benny purses his lips, then slowly shakes his head. “Nothing I can think of.”

“Very well.” Cas finishes the last of his coffee, now gone cold, and pushes the cup across the counter towards him. “Then I think the last thing I’ll trouble you for is a refill, Mr. Lafitte.”

“That I can do.” With a wink, Benny brings him a fresh cup of coffee, then strides briskly away to give his attention to someone else.

Cas finishes the rest of his meal in silence, replaying their conversation in his head. He doesn’t think Benny was lying about his conversation with Dean on the night of Ryan’s death. It might be time to accept that Dean is not the primary suspect and start looking for others. 

And that means he needs to start digging into any other suspicious occurences on past full moons, and anyone who might have had a grudge against Ryan. Cas closes his eyes, fighting back weariness, and considers asking Benny for another coffee to go.


	8. Chapter 8

Cas has never bothered to deny that this trip to Maine is more about him than it is about the case itself. He needed an excuse to get out of the bunker, to get away from the care and concern that should have comforted him but choked him instead. He jumped on the opportunity and drove up here as quickly as he could, and has thrown himself into the investigation with exactly that lack of real consideration ever since. 

It’s about time he takes a breath and _thinks_ before making his next move.

There has been no indication thus far that the killer will strike again before the next full moon, which gives them time. Time for Cas to take a day to sit in his quiet motel room and draw up lists and charts and pages of rambling notes, sentences crossed out and scribbled over until the paper has worn thin beneath his words. His leather-bound notebook is full of similar pages, though the subject of the scribbles changed drastically three years ago.

By early evening, he has an itemized list of priorities and an incomplete list of suspects. Cas lets out a slow breath and pushes his hand through his hair, only realizing afterwards that his fingers are covered in ink and his forehead probably now matches. He can’t be bothered to go check, and since he has no plans of appearing in public tonight, it hardly matters.

His phone rings, and he glances down to see Charlie’s name displayed on the screen. He missed their check-in, though not by long. He accepts the call and holds the phone to his ear, but not too tightly. She has a tendency to get loud when she’s annoyed with him.

“Oh, good, you’re alive,” she says immediately. “I’ll yell at you for missing your check-in later. Listen: I’ve been doing some digging, trying to figure out any reason this town of all towns would be home to a homicidal werewolf.”

“And what did you find out?” Cas asks, tipping his chair back as he looks over his notes. The stained glass window at the abandoned church, Saint Christopher with the head of a dog, flashes through his mind. 

“Nothing good,” she says bluntly. “A few years back, there was a string of similar deaths in Caribou, just about an hour away.”

A cold chill creeps its way up Cas’ spine. Sam Winchester lives in Caribou. “Was the perpetrator ever caught?”

“Not according to official records,” Charlie answers. “But the killings stopped, which makes me think a hunter took care of it. I’ve put a few calls out to see if anyone knows anything about it. Whoever it was, they weren’t one of ours.”

“Or,” Cas says slowly, “the killing stopped because the killer left town.”

The line goes silent, and then Charlie draws in a shaky breath. “Or that.”

Cas rubs at his forehead and pulls his notes closer to himself. “If this is connected to those earlier deaths, we’re looking at two possible scenarios. One, the werewolf from Caribou is here now, and suddenly started killing again after years of silence. Or they managed to bite someone else, who lives here now and killed Ryan Garland.”

“Right. So anyone with a connection to Caribou just moved up on our list of suspects.”

Dean has a connection to Caribou. A connection in the form of a brother, though their relationship is complicated, to say the least. If Sam were somehow responsible for the deaths a few years back, could he have turned Dean into a werewolf as well? Or had killing a young man just on the edge of his brother’s property been some sort of taunt? Cas finds it hard to believe, and tells himself that coincidences abound in small towns like Sydnam. 

“So?” Charlie prompts, her tone betraying her impatience. “Who have you got that fits the bill, Cas?”

Cas looks down at the scribbled list of names in his notebook and shrugs despite the fact that Charlie can’t see the gesture. “No one, really.” He doesn’t mention Sam. He doesn’t want to speak that theory aloud. “No one I have on here has--” He trails off, fragments of a half-forgotten conversation replaying in his mind.

“Theo,” he says.

There’s a brief pause as Charlie tries to catch up. “Theo-- the roommate?”

“Exactly. He told me he was out that night at a bar in Caribou. The way he said it, it sounds like it was a common event for him. If at some point, he encountered whoever was behind that earlier string of deaths, and he got bitten--”

“This might even have been his first full moon,” Charlie cuts in. “It would explain why he hurt someone he was close to. If he couldn’t control it…”

It’s a terrible thought. Cas swallows grimly, imagining the look of shock and betrayal on Ryan’s face at being attacked by someone he trusted. It doesn’t require a lot of imagination. He’s seen that look before. 

“You know what this means, don’t you, Cas?” Charlie’s voice is soft. She’s likely been thinking along the same lines he has. 

“Yes,” Cas replies, managing to keep his voice level, though it takes considerable effort. “It means Theo and I need to have a good, long talk.”

***

Theo is, to put it simply, a mess. His hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in the week since Ryan died, his eyes are bloodshot and sunk deep into dark hollows in a face gone gaunt with grief. He opens the door at Cas’ knock and says nothing when Cas presents his badge, just ushers him inside with a look of utter blankness.

It’s disconcerting, and Cas swallows roughly, looking around the apartment just so he doesn’t have to see the expression on Theo’s face any longer. “I’m sorry for disturbing you,” he says, “but I’m afraid I have a few more questions to ask.”

Theo nods and takes a seat on the couch, leaving the armchair for Cas to settle into. The apartment is just as destroyed as Theo is, but untidiness is no indication of guilt. Cas came here with a purpose, and he has to hold fast to it, not be swallowed up by the misery that clogs the air within these walls.

Cas clears his throat and pulls out his notepad, pen poised over the page. “Can you tell me a little bit more about the few days before Ryan’s death? How he was feeling, how he was acting?”

Theo shrugs, not meeting Cas’ eyes. “Normal, I guess.”

“He didn’t mention anything out of the ordinary, anyone new he met or spoke to?” 

At that, Theo gives a bitter laugh. “We don’t exactly get a lot of new people around here, Agent. You’re kind of the exception.”

“Of course.” Cas nods and changes tactics. “You and Ryan have been friends for a long time, I gather.”

Shadowed eyes flick up to meet Cas’, but only for a brief second. “Yes.”

“Then you’ll want to see justice done.” It’s a leading statement, but Cas doesn’t care. He wants to gauge Theo’s reaction, to watch for any sign of guilt or complicity. 

“Justice?” Theo repeats. A small frown crosses his face. “But it was an animal attack.”

“No.” Cas shakes his head slowly. “It was murder.”

Theo lets out a shaky breath, finally meeting Cas’ gaze. Either his surprise is genuine, or he’s an incredibly gifted actor. “Who would want to kill Ryan?”

“That,” Cas says slowly, “is exactly what I came here to talk to you about.”

Though his face is still pale, there’s a new spark of determination in Theo’s eyes and a stubborn set to his chin. “Anything I can do to help, Agent, I will.”

His cooperation is a blessing, but a wise person would give the appearance of cooperation in order to throw the authorities off their trail. Cas can’t trust Theo, not entirely. The connection to Caribou is too intriguing a thread to be so easily abandoned. 

“Tell me,” he says, “do you often go into Caribou?”

He looks puzzled at the question, but Theo answers readily enough. “Yeah. It’s bigger than this little slice of the middle of nowhere. More bars, more people to meet.”

“And would Ryan go with you?”

“Sometimes.” Theo shrugs. “We went there together when we first turned twenty-one, with his dad. But we haven’t been as often lately. He liked to stay home more than I did.”

“Did you ask him to go with you that night?” 

“He didn’t feel like it,” Theo says with another shrug. “I did ask, cause he hadn’t been out in a while. I thought it would be good for him, you know? Just to kick back and relax.”

Cas raises a curious eyebrow. “Was there a particular reason you thought he might need that kind of night?” It’s the first sign anyone has given of any distress on Ryan’s part.

Theo runs a hand through his hair and exhales loudly. “I mean, nothing major? But he broke up with his girlfriend a few months back when she left town, and he was pretty upset about it. And he had been talking about getting out of town himself, but felt like he couldn’t leave everyone here behind the way she did.”

It isn’t entirely surprising, considering what he’s learned about the young people in this town. But it does add a new layer to Cas’ understanding of the circumstances, and opens up an entirely new avenue of inquiry. “Did Ryan talk about this with many other people?”

“God no.” Theo shakes his head vehemently. “He barely even talked to me about it, but he said a few things here and there, and I saw the job postings he was looking at.”

It wouldn’t make sense for someone to kill Ryan if they wanted to keep him here, but if they were arguing the point, and things got out of hand…

“Who would have reason to be upset with Ryan for thinking of leaving?” Cas asks. 

Theo stares at him for a moment, dawning comprehension in his eyes. “Why would someone kill him if they wanted him to stay?”

“Answer the question, please, Theo.” Cas folds his hands neatly in his lap and fixes him with his most intense stare. 

Swallowing visibly, Theo nods. “Okay. Well. I would say his mom, they’re so close, but now I hear she’s leaving after all this, so maybe she would have understood. Roger, at the motel, they’ve always been on good terms. I think he wanted Ryan to take over the business from him at one point.” He pauses, then spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t know, Agent.”

Cas takes note of the names Theo mentioned-- the tidbit about Roger wanting Ryan to take over the motel is interesting-- and closes the notebook, continuing to hold Theo’s gaze. “I notice you didn’t include yourself on that list.”

Under other circumstances, the way Theo’s jaw drops would be comical. Cas notes it with cool detachment, having seen such studied exaggeration before. 

“You don’t think I--”

“You and Ryan were close,” Cas presses. “How would you have felt if he left you behind?”

“He did!”

Theo’s words cut sharply through the fog of suspicion in Cas’ mind, and he blinks, suddenly aware of the tears swimming behind the young man’s eyes. 

“He did leave me behind.” Theo’s voice is shaky, cracking under his grief and his confusion. “He died, Agent. And now you’re telling me somebody killed him, and acting like it might have been me? Screw you. Ryan was like a brother to me, and if he wanted to get out of town I would have driven him there myself. I didn’t kill him. I would never hurt him.”

Whatever doubt Cas may have had crumbles in that instant. Theo is just a kid, really, a kid trying to make sense of a terrible loss that will likely affect him for the rest of his life. Cas knows a thing or two about that. So he lets out a long breath and says, “I’m sorry.”

Theo waves away his apology with a dismissive hand. “I get it. Blame the roommate, right? The one who was out drinking that night, the one who might have been under the influence and making stupid decisions. I get it. But you’re wrong. If you want proof, you can check the security cameras for the store. They cover the entrance that also leads up here, and you’ll see me come home, alone and not looking like I just killed my best friend in cold blood.”

Cas starts to reply, then halts, frowning. “There are security cameras for the store?”

“Yes.” Theo frowns at him, a new wariness in his eyes. “We trust people around here, but it’s still smart to take precautions.”

“So if we checked footage from the night Ryan was killed, we might be able to see when he left, and if he left with anyone?”

Theo’s eyes go wide. “Do you want me to--”

“Yes,” Cas replies instantly. “I need to see that footage.”

They clatter down the stairs and into the store, Theo waving briefly at the bemused girl behind the counter. “My cousin,” he explains briefly, pulling open a door in the back corner and ushering Cas inside. “We can access the security footage from here.”

It’s a tiny office, barely enough room for the two of them to stand in. Cas doesn’t mind the discomfort. Theo fiddles with a few things on the computer, and soon enough, a slightly grainy image of the street in front of the general store appears on the screen. 

“I left around eight that night,” Theo says, “and Ryan was still at home, so let’s start there.”

He fast-forwards to just before eight, and sure enough, he’s soon visible exiting the building and turning down the street towards a car parked a few feet away. The camera catches other people passing by, bundled up in warm jackets, but none of them are Ryan.

“Skip ahead a bit,” Cas suggests.

Theo does as instructed, and they both lean closer to the screen as the image goes fuzzy, bringing them much later into the night. A flash of movement catches Cas’ eyes, and he holds out a hand to stop Theo. “Wait. There. Go back.”

The timestamp on the video says 10:34. It’s Ryan, opening the door and stepping onto the street, wearing the same clothes he was found in. Theo makes a small noise deep in his throat, and Cas rests a comforting hand on his shoulder as they continue to watch. Ryan sets off on foot, hands buried in his pockets at first, then withdrawing to hold his phone up to his ear. Then he’s lost to the camera.

“He didn’t meet anyone,” Theo says softly. “So this was pointless.”

“Not necessarily,” Cas points out. “We know what time he left. We know he made or took a call. We have his phone at the sheriff’s station. We can match the time on this video to his phone records and figure out who he spoke to.”

Theo twists to look up at him, eyes wide. “And that will help you catch whoever did this?”

Cas looks back at the image frozen on the screen, Ryan walking away into the distance. “I certainly hope so.”

Theo locks the office behind them and escorts Cas back up to the apartment to get his coat. “If there’s anything else I can help with, Agent, you know where to find me.”

Guilt settles into Cas’ chest like a lead weight. It’s his job to be suspicious, but Theo is a victim here, as much as Ryan’s mother is. He’s owed more tact than Cas showed today. “Thank you, Theo,” he says. “You really have been very helpful.”

Just as he’s turning to leave, there’s a light knock on the door. “Expecting someone?” Cas asks.

Theo shakes his head. “No, but it’s probably my cousin asking me to cover her so she can go grab lunch with a friend.” A brief smile lights his face. “It’s a pretty common occurrence.”

Cas laughs and pulls the door open, but it isn’t Theo’s cousin standing on the other side. It’s Ryan’s father.

“Oh.” Theo casts a helpless look at Cas and swallows nervously. “Hey, Mr. Garland.”

Tom Garland barely even glances at Cas as he passes him. “I’m just here to pack up some more of Ryan’s things. I hope that’s okay with you, Theo.”

“Yeah, of course. Agent Draper was just leaving, and I’ll be out soon too. Take as long as you need.”

Tom gives Cas a quick look, no hint of recognition in his eyes, then nods and turns towards Ryan’s former bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him. Theo winces at the noise and gives Cas an apologetic shrug. “I figure it’s best to give him time alone, you know?”

“Maybe,” Cas responds. Grieving takes many forms. Sometimes, you need to be alone. Others, you need someone with you, someone who understands. His heart aches for everyone left behind. Bringing the killer to justice won’t bring Ryan back, but he hopes it will bring them some measure of comfort. “Take care of yourself, Theo.”

***

The number is out of service.

Cas pinches the bridge of his nose and draws in a deep breath. “So this tells us nothing.”

“Sorry, Agent,” Kevin offers with a grimace. “All we can tell you is that Ryan made calls to that number before. Not often, but seven times over the past two years. And now, suspiciously, that number is no longer in use.”

It takes considerable effort for Cas not to let loose with a volley of curses that would likely shock both young deputies. Even so, Garth takes a small step back, eyes widening in alarm. “You alright there, Agent?”

Cas squares his shoulders and nods. “Yes. My apologies, Deputy. My frustration is directed at the lack of progress on the case, not at either of you.”

“We want this finished as much as you do,” Kevin says quietly. “I knew Ryan. We went to high school together. But we’re a small department, and the crime labs aren’t exactly considering this a high priority investigation, so it might be a while before we get any answers from the shirt you and the sheriff found in the woods.”

For the second time that day, Cas is confronted with the unsettling knowledge that as much as he cares about the pursuit of justice-- and more privately, ridding the world of one more monster-- he really doesn’t feel this investigation the way the others do. He never knew Ryan Garland. The loss, for him, is much more abstract.

He used to be much better at empathy. But he lost that, along with a few other things, four years ago.

“I’m going to head out,” Kevin says, directing his words to Garth. “Are you still coming by after your shift?”

“Bess and I will be there,” Garth replies. There’s a warm grin on his face and a particular emphasis on the name that suggests Bess is his partner. “Don’t get all those boxes packed without us.”

At Cas’ inquisitive look, Kevin gives a small shrug. “I’m going over to Camille’s to help her pack up some things. She’s going to stay with her sister until she can sell the house.”

It seems like a hasty departure, but Cas’ own leavetaking was even hastier. He can’t fault Camille for wanting to leave behind a house filled with reminders of her son. “I could help as well,” he offers.

Kevin smiles sadly and shakes his head. “It’s a generous offer, Agent. But I think it would be better if you didn’t.”

“Of course.” He is, after all, an outsider. And on top of that, a constant reminder of Camille’s loss. It was a foolish thought, one better suited to his old life than his current. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Both Garth and Kevin offer polite farewells as he turns to leave. He stops for a brief moment to smile tightly at Nancy, who is on the phone, and then he’s out the door, the cold air taking him by surprise. It’s late November in Maine, and winter is on its way. Cas shivers and makes a note to look for some gloves at one of the shops in town. 

With the way this case is going, he might be here until spring.


	9. Chapter 9

The days fall into a pattern.

Cas gets up early and makes use of the exercise room at the motel. He chats lightly with Roger, treating him with some suspicion at first after what Theo told him about his hope that Ryan would take over the motel. But Roger has a solid alibi for the night Ryan died, having been at the motel for most of the night with the guest registry to prove it. Then Cas heads into town and grabs coffee at the diner under Benny’s watchful eye before driving to the sheriff’s station to check for any new information. Donna greets him with a smile that becomes less and less genuine every day, shaking her head sadly as she reports once again that there is nothing to report. He spends hours going over security footage with Theo, looking for any patterns of behaviour in the days leading up to Ryan’s death, and finds nothing suspicious.

At night, he checks in with Charlie, listens to her talk about what the rest of the crew is up to, and wishes he had better news to share with her.

Twice, the nightmare wakes him in the middle of the night. After he recovers his breath, he stumbles to the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced than ever. His hands shake as he splashes cold water over his face, and even the familiar rhythm of his rosary sliding through his hands is thrown off by their trembling.

He just wants this to be over.

By Sunday, the sense of running up against a brick wall prompts him to take another trip to Caribou. The string of deaths two years ago is worth investigating, especially considering how the case was never solved. Charlie still hasn’t received word from the hunter community about anyone taking down a werewolf around that time, which makes Cas nervous. Hunters aren’t normally shy about their successful cases.

If none of Charlie’s contacts can provide any information, he’ll have to look to local law enforcement for answers.

Immediately upon entering the sheriff’s station, Cas knows he won’t receive the same friendly treatment he’s become accustomed to in Sydnam. The woman behind the desk glares at him over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses, even after he forces a smile and flashes his badge at her. She waves him back towards the sheriff’s office, her eyes following him the entire way. 

Sheriff Ashford is a tall, balding man with small eyes that narrow further when he opens the door and sees Cas standing on the other side. Cas flashes his badge again, but doesn’t bother with the smile. “Agent Aidan Draper,” he says. “I have a few questions about the deaths two years ago.”

The sheriff ushers him inside and closes the door behind them. “The animal attacks, you mean?”

Cas folds his hands together and gives him a mild look. “You and I both know that isn’t what they were, Sheriff.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But they stopped.” The sheriff shrugs with a truly startling lack of concern. “I’m not sure why you’re here, Agent.”

Resisting the urge to haul the man up by the collar of the uniform he’s disgracing with his very nonchalance, Cas tightens his grip on the arm of the chair instead. “I’m here,” he says, “because a young man is dead. His body was found in a state similar to that of the victims from two years ago, and considering the geographical proximity, to call it a coincidence would be ridiculous.”

Sheriff Ashford crosses his arms over his chest. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

Cas leans forward in his seat. “Did you have any suspects?”

Instead of answering, Ashford stands and rummages through a filing cabinet, tossing a woefully thin folder onto the desk between them. “That’s everything we have on the case.”

It only takes a few minutes for Cas to go through it. Three victims, all men in their thirties and forties, all found in alleys near bars. It isn’t much to go on, but it’s a start. “Was there any connection between them?”

The sheriff presses his lips together and doesn’t meet Cas’ eyes. “They were all involved with the same woman, Louise Newsome, at one point or another.”

His temper returning in full force, Cas lets out a disbelieving laugh. “You might have led with that. Surely you interviewed her in connection with the deaths.”

The sheriff shakes his head. “Her? No. Tiny little thing. No way she took down those guys. We talked to other exes of hers, and her current boyfriend. They all had alibis for the nights the men were killed.”

Cas flips through the file again, noting the dates of the murders. Then he pulls up the app on his phone that tracks the phases of the moon. Every night one of the men died, there was a full moon. 

Closing his eyes briefly, he opens them again to meet the sheriff’s hostile gaze. “Is Ms. Newsome still in town?”

“Nah,” the sheriff replies. “She left not long after that. Can’t say I blame her.”

Fleeing the scene of her crimes? It looks more and more likely. On a full moon, her strength would have been greatly increased. But Cas doesn’t recognize the name at all, and he’s fairly certain she doesn’t live in Sydnam. So even if she were responsible for these deaths, it brings him no closer to understanding why Ryan Garland died so horribly.

“I’ll be taking this with me,” he says, rising to his feet with the file clutched tightly in hand. “If I have any further questions, I’ll look forward to your cooperation once more.”

The sheriff doesn’t bother to conceal his sneer, already turning back to his computer screen. Cas waits for a moment, but apparently he isn’t going to be offered a farewell. He turns sharply on his heel and leaves the office. The receptionist gives him an even more sour look as he passes. Feeling reckless, Cas bares his teeth in a grin that can’t possibly be mistaken for pleasant and has the satisfaction of seeing her jaw drop as one ring-bedecked hand flies to her chest.

As he climbs back into his truck, his stomach rumbles, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten since he first woke early this morning. There’s a cheerful looking bar and grill on the main street and he heads over in search of sustenance before making the drive back to Sydnam. It’s a far more welcoming atmosphere than the sheriff’s station, and soon enough Cas is seated at the end of the bar enjoying a strong cup of coffee and some excellent leek and potato soup.

He reads over the file again as he eats, careful not to drip anything on it, and becomes so absorbed in the details of the case that he doesn’t hear anyone come up behind him. It takes a pointed cough before he turns to see Sam Winchester standing behind him, one eyebrow raised and mouth set in a tight line.

“What are you doing here, Agent?” he asks.

Cas matches his expression. “My job.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sarah sliding into a booth with another couple, casting an anxious look in Sam’s direction as she does. For her benefit, Cas won’t make a scene. It’s incredibly good fortune to have run into Sam here, considering his connection to both towns.

“And your job brought you back here, where I just happened to be coming for lunch?” Sam’s eyebrow climbs even higher. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I would agree with you, but I happen to know it’s the truth.” Cas taps the file he has spread open across the surface of the bar. “I’m investigating the string of deaths here two years ago in connection with the more recent events in Sydnam.”

Slowly, Sam nods. “There is a striking resemblance between them. Except that Ryan was much younger than these men.”

“True,” Cas concedes. “Tell me, Sam. Did you know Ms. Newsome?” He places a subtle emphasis on the word _know_ , and he can tell by the flare of Sam’s nostrils that it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Not well,” he replies curtly. 

“Did Dean?”

At that, Sam moves forward with sudden intensity, and for a moment, Cas thinks he’s about to be punched. “Why would Dean know someone who lived here two years ago? He’s not exactly the most social person.”

Cas shrugs, covering the rapid pounding of his heart with studied casualness. “It’s just a question.”

“A question that has no bearing on either case,” Sam says. “No, Agent Draper. The answer is no. To anything that would suggest Dean’s involvement in either of these awful situations.”

Nodding slowly, Cas asks, “And what about yours?”

After all, Sam is the one who moved between the two towns. Dean’s behaviour is the more suspicious, but if he has been covering for Sam in some way, it would all make sense. 

Sam shakes his head. “If you want to ask me more questions, Agent, you’re free to drop by the house. You already know where it is. But for now, I’m going back to enjoy the lunch I planned with my fiancée and my friends.”

“I just might.” Cas inclines his head slightly, an acknowledgement of the uneasy truce between them. “A word of advice, though, Sam.”

Already walking away, Sam looks back. “What?”

“Make sure you have a good alibi for the night of the next full moon.”

It’s a last-minute effort to catch Sam off his guard, a desperate ploy for some sort of reaction. And it works. Sam’s eyes go wide, and he nearly stumbles over his own feet. He stares at Cas for a moment, saying nothing, then pulls himself together and walks off, shoulders stiff. 

Cas lets him go. 

He finishes his lunch in peace, leaves a generous tip for the staff, and turns up the collar of his coat as he walks back into the brisk afternoon. The sun is shining, but the air is cold. It’s a beautiful day, and he has nowhere else to be, so he decides to take the longer route back to Sydnam. If his decision is partially influenced by his desire to see that old ruined church again, so be it. He would welcome the quiet and solitude right now, a balm to the chaos of the thoughts swirling through his mind. 

Deliberately, he turns up the radio as he drives along the deserted road. He doesn’t want to think about Sam’s reaction to his parting words, about Louise Newsome and where she disappeared to, if she could still somehow be connected to Ryan’s death. He’ll have time to examine all those things later. For now, he enjoys the drive, the steady thrum of the truck’s engine and the crooning voice on the radio. When he crosses over the bridge and sees the sign for Saint Christopher’s, he shuts the radio off, driving the last mile in silence. Anything else would feel disrespectful to the beauty of this place, somehow.

He parks the truck in the overgrown lot, drinking in the sight of the church in the mid-afternoon sun. Despite its crumbling walls and the general air of neglect and nostalgia that hangs over it, its beauty makes his breath catch in his throat. For all the emotional toll this case has taken on him, it has also brought him here. It’s almost enough to make him believe in some higher power again.

The door opens easily beneath the gentle pressure of his hand. Cas frowns at it, remembering the way it groaned the first time he was here, and steps inside, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. Sunlight spills through the stained glass windows, illuminating the figure of a man seated in the first pew, right in front of the image of Saint Christopher with the dog’s head.

Cas freezes, instinctively reaching for a weapon. But he left everything in the truck, not thinking he would need to defend himself here. He takes a cautious step forward, using his well-honed skills to make no noise. The man’s head is bowed, and he doesn’t appear to have noticed Cas sneaking up behind him. It’s not until he’s halfway down the aisle that Cas recognizes the golden brown of that hair, the pleasing set of those shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” His words come out sharper than anticipated, and Dean leaps to his feet, eyes wide as he turns to take in Cas striding towards him. “This is private property.”

Dean doesn’t bother to dignify that with a reply, arching an eloquent eyebrow at Cas instead. Both of them are trespassing here, and they both know it.

Feeling a faint flush rising in his cheeks, Cas snaps, “Where’s your vehicle? Did you take one of your walks through the woods and somehow end up so far from home?”

At that, Dean shakes his head. “Parked down the road a bit.”

It’s a more honest response than Cas would have expected, with none of the belligerence or mockery that often colour Dean’s words to him. Cas shifts his weight from foot to foot and frowns. “What are you doing here?” he repeats, but softer this time. Less accusatory. 

Dean shrugs and lowers himself back onto the wooden pew. Cas hesitates for a moment, then sits across the aisle from him. Dean looks different here, all his hard edges worn down. He glances at Cas once, then exhales noisily, spreading his hands before him. “I come here to think sometimes.”

Seeing as that had been Cas’ exact intent in coming here as well, he’s inclined to believe Dean. “But why here?” In all their brief acquaintance, Cas has never gotten the impression that Dean is a particularly religious person. Even if he were, there’s a church in town, one that’s both far closer and in far better repair.

Dean looks away, up at the window. A shadow crosses over his features, and it’s so long before he answers that Cas thinks he’s being ignored. Then, so softly that Cas can barely hear him, he says, “My parents were married here.”

Out of all the explanations Dean could have given, that one would never have occurred to Cas. He starts to reply, then closes his mouth. Anything he could say would feel hopelessly inadequate. He knows so little about Dean’s family history, other than the fact that it’s shrouded in mystery and long-buried pain. 

His throat is dry, and when he coughs to clear it, the noise echoes harshly from the high ceiling. “Do you come here often?”

Finally, Dean turns back to look at him. “No offense, Agent, but I’d rather not play twenty questions with you right now.” He climbs to his feet and is halfway down the aisle before Cas calls out after him.

“Wait,” he says. “I’m sorry, Mr. Winchester. For disturbing you.”

Dean glances over his shoulder, the perfect lines of his profile illuminated by the sunlight. He looks like an icon, not at all out of place in these surroundings. He holds Cas’ gaze, then nods slowly and comes back to the front of the church and sits down again.

The silence stretches between them, uncomfortable until it isn’t. They both face forward, and while Cas is aware of Dean’s presence, he isn’t threatened by it. He darts an occasional glance across the aisle and sees that Dean’s eyes are closed. He almost looks like he’s sleeping.

Cas can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking of, what images are playing in his mind. Something involving his parents, surely. A good ten minutes pass before Dean speaks again, his eyes still closed. 

“They were only twenty-two when they got married,” he says. “Mom’s parents didn’t really approve, but she didn’t care. She loved him so much. And he would have done anything for her, including getting married in this tiny church in the middle of nowhere because they drove past it one day and she said it was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen.”

“I can see why,” Cas says. He doesn’t know why Dean is telling him this, but he isn’t about to stop him. The cynical part of him says it’s because he hopes to lull Dean into a false sense of security and provoke some sort of admission of guilt from him, but he knows that isn’t true. 

“This place looked so different in the wedding pictures,” Dean continues. “They were so happy.” He gestures to the altar in front of them. “Standing right there. In some of the pictures, you’d swear she had a halo, the way the sun shone on her hair.”

His voice shakes as he speaks, and Cas instinctively slides across the pew, catching himself at the last moment and leaving the safety of the aisle between them. “What happened to her?” he asks. Donna hadn’t been able to tell him anything definite. 

“She died when I was four.” Dean’s voice is toneless now, but his shoulders are drawn up almost to his ears. “Dad was never the same afterwards. She was the love of his life.”

Cas wants to ask how she died, but restrains himself. This isn’t the time to slip into interrogation mode. But there is something that confuses him. “You said they were married here, but I thought you and your family only moved to this area sixteen years ago.”

Dean looks up at that, the barest hint of a smile on his face. “Good memory, Agent. We moved around a lot as kids, even before Mom died. But I guess my dad eventually decided it was time to come back here.”

He traces an absent hand over the wooden surface of the pew. “This place was already shut down when we got here. But I liked coming here anyway. It made me feel closer to her. Still does.”

There’s a lump in his throat that can’t be dislodged no matter how hard he tries. Cas bites his lip and considers leaving. It’s clear he’s intruding here. No matter Dean’s potential involvement in his case, he should be allowed to grieve in peace. To remember a loved one without being disturbed by someone who has only brought more turmoil into his life.

But he stays. He can’t explain it, but he stays.

“Sam never understood it,” Dean says after another long pause. “He was just six months old when she died. He doesn’t even remember her. But I do.”

He raises one hand and presses it to his face. He makes no sound, but Cas is certain he’s fighting back tears. There’s a yawning emptiness in his chest, his own pain brought to the surface by its reflection in Dean. It was foolish of him to think that Dean posed no threat to him here. In his vulnerability, Dean is a thousand times more dangerous than he is when his mask of sarcasm and hostility is in place.

For so long, Cas has held himself distant. Yet in tearing down his own defenses, Dean has also broken through Cas’, all his carefully built walls tumbling down. He aches to hold and be held. To slide across the pew and across the aisle and across the suspicion and distrust that has characterized their interactions to this point. 

He almost does it. But then Dean draws in a shuddering breath and lowers his hand from his face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You didn’t come here to hear all this, I’m sure.”

“No.” Cas shakes his head. “But I don’t mind.”

Dean turns his head and gives him a wry look. “I guess people spill all sorts of secrets to you, don’t they, Agent?”

“Sometimes.” Cas’ heart is pounding in his chest, and though he’s seated firmly on the solid wooden pew, he feels like he’s about to step over the edge of a tall and sheer cliff. “But not as many as they used to when I would hear confession.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe it’s the atmosphere of this place, the way it feels like a world unto itself, free of judgment and repercussions. Or maybe it’s the honesty Dean gave him, unasked for, and the way Cas was humbled by it.

Dean’s shock shows itself clearly on his face. “Confession?” he repeats. “You’re-- you used to be a priest?”

“Yes.” Not even the entire crew at the Roadhouse knows that about him. And here he is, telling a near-stranger. A suspect in his current case. He shakes his head at his own lack of good sense. “Until four years ago.”

Leaning forward with interest, Dean says, “What happened then?”

Blood. So much blood. A familiar face twisted in horrible laughter, light fading from behind bright eyes. And Cas, left behind in the wreckage. 

He closes his eyes tightly and shakes his head. “Something terrible.”

Dean falls silent, not pressing him, for which Cas is grateful. When he opens his eyes, he’s greeted with an assessing look. “From priest to FBI. That’s quite the career change.”

Cas permits himself a smile that’s more of a grimace. “Indeed.” Of course, he isn’t really an FBI agent, but Dean doesn’t need to know that. 

Drumming his fingers against the back of the pew, Dean tilts his head to the side. “Do you ever miss it?”

It’s a thoughtful question, and it deserves a thoughtful response. “Not exactly,” Cas replies eventually. “I miss the order of it. The routine. The world is so chaotic, so violent-- there was a comfort in the rituals of the church.” He nods at their surroundings. “And beauty, of course. There’s a lot more ugliness in my life now. Not that the church is without ugliness, either.” He shrugs. “I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on it. I don’t think I would make the same choice, to enter the priesthood, if you asked me today.”

“Is that why you came here? To remember?” Dean asks.

“Something like that.” 

Dean nods. “It’s a good place for that.”

The conversation falters, but in its place is a new understanding between them, an acknowledgement of shared pain and the need to seek solace in the serenity of this place. It’s a surprising detente, but one Cas won’t risk shattering. They sit in silence, both of them lost to their memories, and it’s not until the sun starts to go down that Dean rises to his feet and turns to Cas, an uncharacteristically hesitant look on his face.

“I should be heading home,” he says. “Whatever you’re looking for, I hope you found it here.”

Cas almost laughs. There are a lot of things he’s looking for. Justice. Absolution. Redemption, even. He lifts one hand in a small wave. “Thank you. You as well.”

Dean nods and turns to leave, then pauses near the door. “This doesn’t change anything, does it?”

It would be unfair to say that it did. But it would also be unfair to agree completely. “Some things,” Cas says instead. “But not everything. Go home, Dean. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

The door closes gently behind him, and Cas tips his head back, looking up at the vaulted ceiling. He sits there a few minutes longer, until he’s sure Dean has made it back to his truck, and then exits the church. 

Cold air bites into his skin, and he shivers. He drives back to Sydnam in silence, and when he goes to bed that night, his sleep is undisturbed.


	10. Chapter 10

Louise Newsome is an incredibly hard woman to find. Cas immediately informs Charlie of the information he acquired in Caribou and sets her the task of tracking down Louise, but to no avail. “She probably changed her name,” Charlie says during one of their nightly check-ins. “I’ve pulled records from when she lived in Caribou and I’m running other searches for possible matches, but it will take time.”

“We still have time,” Cas tells her. It’s been two weeks since Ryan’s death. They have approximately two more until the next full moon. 

“Not that much time,” Charlie replies. “Cas, are you sure you don’t want me to send someone up there to help you out?”

It’s proof of his own feelings of inadequacy that he even considers his answer for a moment. “No,” he says eventually. “I don’t think there’s anything they could do to help, Charlie. This case--”

He doesn’t know how to explain it. It’s gotten under his skin in a way no other hunt has before, and maybe that’s the exact reason he should have back-up, but he can’t imagine bringing someone else in now. 

“I’ve worked hard to develop a rapport with the people here.” It’s true, and Cas is grateful for it every time he drops by the sheriff’s station or the general store. “If someone else came here now, it would be a distraction.”

Charlie doesn’t respond right away. “Cas. Just promise me you won’t leave it too late.”

Cas pulls the phone away from his ear and takes a steadying breath. To suggest that he would-- “I won’t,” he says, words clipped. “Is that what you think of me, Charlie? That I’m so arrogant as to put lives at risk simply to prove my own independence?”

“That wasn’t what I meant,” she replies. “It’s not about whether you can or can’t do this alone, Cas. It’s about whether you should have to.”

“That’s a far more philosophical question than we should be having over the phone.” It’s a dismissal, and they both know it. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Cas--” she starts, but he ends the call before he can hear more.

He’s being unreasonable. And rude. Charlie’s words rattle in his head, a sick feeling rising in his throat. Is he being arrogant? Is he being selfish? He’s had a fairly impressive career as a hunter, but a relatively short one. If someone more experienced-- Jesse, or Tracy, or even Jo-- were to come to join him here, would they see things he had missed? 

He comforts himself with the knowledge that Charlie would just send someone after him if she truly thought she needed to. She’s placing a great deal of trust in him, the same way she has since she let him leave the bunker alone two weeks ago. He’s repaid that trust with appalling behaviour. 

Pulling out his phone, he sends her a quick text. _I’m sorry._

 _I know_ , she replies. _Get this done, Cas, and then come home._

Home. She means the bunker, of course, but it’s not the word Cas would have used for it. Home is more than a place, it’s a feeling. And he buried that feeling four years ago.

***

He’s sitting at the diner, lingering over his usual coffee. He has no urge to hurry to the sheriff’s station just to hear Donna say that there’s nothing new to report. Again. It’s now been two and a half weeks since Ryan died, and every night, Cas looks up at the moon and flinches from the sight of it growing fuller in the sky.

There’s a local paper on the counter beside him, left behind by another guest. Cas picks it up and flicks idly through it, past the news about the high school sports teams and the upcoming craft fair. In the middle of the paper, a headline catches his eye: _Local authorities still baffled by violent death of young man._

He shouldn’t read it. It won’t tell him anything he doesn’t already know. He still can’t stop himself.

Words and phrases jump out at him: _body mauled, evidence sent for testing, no suspects, killer still at large_. All of it is true, but it sounds so different spelled out on the page in bold black ink. It sounds like Donna and her team-- and Cas, though he’s only briefly mentioned in the article-- aren’t doing everything in their power to find out what happened that night. 

He pushes the paper aside and inhales deeply, eyes closing for a brief moment. When he opens them, he’s greeted with Benny’s sympathetic look as he reaches across to refill Cas’ coffee mug. “Still no new leads, then, Agent?”

“Unfortunately not.” Cas takes a sip of the fresh coffee, letting it linger before swallowing. “I get the sense I’m not the only one frustrated by our lack of progress.”

Benny doesn’t bother offering comforting platitudes. “It’s not just that, though that’s part of it.” He gestures to the rest of the diner, which is slightly less busy than usual. “People are starting to wonder if they might be next.”

Cas has had the same thought himself. They’ve yet to come up with a possible motive for Ryan being the target, which means everyone is at risk. Donna and her deputies are concerned, of course, but they’re still operating under the assumption that this might be a one-time thing. Cas, with the additional information he has about werewolves and full moons, knows better. 

“Are you worried?” he asks Benny, raising an eyebrow. Benny doesn’t seem ruffled by much, if anything. 

“Nah.” Benny gives a lazy shrug. “I can take care of myself.” But he looks across the diner to where Elizabeth is chatting with a customer, a bright smile on her face. “I’m worried for her, though. And for everyone else in this town.”

“You think there will be another attack?” 

Benny nods. “I do.”

“So do I,” Cas admits. “I hope there isn’t. But every instinct I have is telling me that we’re running out of time.”

The next full moon is less than two weeks away. Cas has a hundred different threads to follow, and not enough time to pursue them all. There’s Louise Newsome, there’s the bloody shirt still languishing at the crime lab, there’s the out of service number Ryan called the night he died. And, of course, there are the Winchester brothers. He rattled Sam when he mentioned the full moon. In spite of what passed between Cas and Dean in that church a few days ago, they’re still suspects. 

Benny taps his fingers against the top of the counter, his eyes guarded. “I’d say you’re right about that, Agent.”

Cas tilts his head to the side, considering. There’s something knowing in Benny’s tone, a certainty that is at odds with all the questions this investigation has raised. He’s forgotten, during these daily visits to the diner, that Benny is the person Dean is closest to in town. Is that why he sounds so assured of more violence to come? 

He doesn’t voice his suspicions out loud. Instead, he picks up his mug and drains the last of his coffee as Benny moves down the counter to serve another customer. Distantly, he hears the two of them discussing the weather, the potential for a storm this evening. As Cas pays his bill and rises to his feet, Benny casts an unreadable look back at him, lifting one hand in a brief farewell as Cas pulls his coat on and buttons it tightly. 

It’s quite possibly just his mind playing tricks on him after his conversation with Benny, but the streets seem colder as he walks towards the sheriff’s station, and not just because of the dropping temperatures. A few people nod to him as he passes, but there are no smiles. Cas turns up the collar of his coat and quickens his pace.

Inside the station, the air is warmer, but there’s still a distinct shadow over the room. Nancy looks up at his entrance, and her usual smile is strained. Kevin is glued to his computer screen, and Garth’s wave lacks its usual energy. Cas doesn’t know what to say to them, how to force positivity when he feels none, so he just creeps past them and into Donna’s office without a word.

“Good morning, Agent,” she says, the same words she always greets him with. Her smile is less bright than usual, though, and her cheeks look pale, not flushed and rosy with good humour. This case is taking its toll on all of them. 

“Anything to report?” he asks, already knowing what her answer will be.

Donna’s lips tighten and she shakes her head. “No, sir.”

Cas glances down at her desk and sees a copy of the local newspaper shoved under stacks of other papers. He pulls it out, noting the date. The same issue he read over his coffee, the one with the article about Ryan’s death. No wonder the station is so somber. 

“It isn’t your fault.” Anger lends coldness to his words, but it isn’t directed at her. “We’re doing our best, Donna.”

“I know that.” She sighs and tips her chair back, looking up at the ceiling. “We’re in over our heads, though, Agent. Murder? We’ve never had to handle anything like this before. It’s not our fault, but we aren’t exactly equipped to deal with this either.”

“I am,” he tells her. It’s true of his persona as an FBI agent, but more so of him as a hunter. “And even I’m at a loss.”

“I’ve been calling the crime lab every day, trying to get them to rush the tests on that shirt we found. They don’t seem to think we’re important enough to move up in the line.” Bitterness colours Donna’s voice, a tone Cas has never heard from her before. “I just don’t know what else to do.”

“Neither do I,” Cas admits.

They sit in silence, nowhere for the conversation to go after that. Donna glances at the phone on her desk as though hoping it will suddenly ring with good news, or any news at all, but it doesn’t. Eventually, Cas sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and rises to his feet. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Donna.”

She barely looks in his direction. “See you tomorrow, Agent.”

The minute he’s back in his truck, Cas snaps. He beats his hands against the steering wheel, letting out a flurry of foul words that would shock the well-mannered passersby if they could hear him. Heart pounding, he lowers his head to rest against the wheel, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths. 

It takes him some time to compose himself enough to start the engine and head back towards the motel. His route takes him past the road where Ryan’s body was found, and Cas turns down it before he realizes he’s doing so, pulling the truck to a stop just in front of the line of trees where the crime scene was marked off.

This is where it all began. Or, for Ryan, where it all ended. It’s such an utterly unremarkable spot. The bodies of the men killed in Caribou were all found in alleys, closer to the main areas of the town. If there is a connection between those earlier events and Ryan’s death, why would the killer change their habits? Why here, of all places?

The road draws his gaze inwards, into the woods. A gust of wind rattles the bare branches of the trees, beckoning him forward with magnetic force. Cas grips the steering wheel tightly and lets out a slow, contemplative breath. 

He’s had no luck with people. Maybe it’s time he turned to an investigation of place instead. But not now. Later tonight, to mimic the time Ryan was here. If there’s something prowling in these woods, that’s when he’ll be most likely to encounter it. And unlike poor Ryan, Cas will be prepared.

A grim smile on his face, he starts the truck’s engine and roars back to the motel. If invisible eyes are watching him from beyond the trees, he hopes they know he’s coming for them.

***

He dresses with care that evening, layering shirts over each other in a way designed to keep him warm while not restricting his movement. He slides his feet into thick wool socks and his heavy boots, then pulls his warm wool coat over the whole ensemble. His rosary is a comforting weight around his neck, well-buried under his layers of clothing. This is a battle, and he will enter it properly attired.

He chooses his weapons with equal consideration. His gun is loaded with silver bullets, and he has a silver knife as well. Tucked inside his boot is the small vial of holy water he never goes hunting without, just in case. He slides his phone into a zippered pocket of his coat and takes one last look around the motel room before flicking off the lights.

It’s only a short drive to the turn-off for the road into the woods. Cas drives into the forest a ways, not wanting his truck to be visible from the main road. No sense announcing his presence to everyone driving by. He needs stealth and subtlety tonight. Cutting the engine, he pulls on his new pair of thick gloves and swings out of the cab, the gravel crunching beneath his feet. 

A light snow is falling. Vaguely, he remembers the man at the diner mentioning the possibility of a storm. It’s too late to turn back now, though. Adrenaline courses through his veins, warming him from the inside out. This may all come to nothing in the end, but at least he’ll know he met this challenge head-on, that he walked into the proverbial lion’s den with his head held high. 

Turning away from the road, he heads into the trees. Branches crack beneath his heavy boots, his breath forming clouds of smoke in the chill air. The forest is quiet, but the hush is heavy and expectant. Cas’ eyes rove constantly around him, carefully scanning for any signs of movement or other disturbance. 

He walks on, moving deeper into the woods. A small creek, barely more than a trickle, has frozen over, a light dusting of snow now covering its surface. Even protected by the trees, the wind is fierce. 

A branch snaps somewhere in the distance, and Cas halts immediately, one hand reaching for his weapon. He holds his breath, eyes straining against the darkness, and hears another crack. This one sounds further away. Cursing inwardly, he moves towards the noise, doing his best to make none of his own. 

He’s come a far way from his truck now. The trees are thinning out, and soon enough, they give way to a small clearing. Here, without the shelter of the trees, the wind stings his eyes, the falling snowflakes harsh against his cheeks. Despite the threat of the weather, there’s a beauty to this place that pierces Cas to the core. Snow has accumulated on the open ground, glittering in the moonlight. He takes a step forward, almost reluctant to break the smoothness of it, then pauses.

The clearing is too open. He’s exposed both to the elements and to whatever threat lurks in these woods, whatever strangeness causes the local children to dare each other to come out this way at night. On the other hand, it means he can see anyone--or anything--approaching him. 

He waits, but hears nothing but the wind.

With a sigh, he turns to head back into the protection of the forest. Just as he does, he catches a glimpse of glowing eyes, peering out from the trees. 

Cas springs into action, dashing immediately towards them. The eyes disappear, but the thrill of knowing he was right, knowing these woods were more than they seemed, carries him forward. He crashes through the trees, no longer caring how much noise he makes. 

He can hear the thing moving ahead of him. He’s gaining on it. But he forgot about the creek.

The ice is slippery despite the layer of snow atop it. Cas skids across it, and with a sickening noise, his ankle gives way. He lands heavily, hands breaking some of the impact, but another crunch has him wincing in dismay. His ankle is throbbing with pain, and when he tries to stand, he wobbles and falls over again. 

The forest is silent around him. Whatever he was pursuing is long gone. 

Cursing to himself, Cas hauls himself up. His ankle screams at him, fiery pain radiating up his leg, but he grits his teeth and ignores it. There are plenty of fallen branches nearby, and he uses one as a crutch, helping support some of his weight. 

It’s slow going, dragging himself back towards the truck. He’s shivering now, all his careful layers doing little to prevent the chill from seeping into his bones. He’s fairly confident he’s heading in the right direction, but the trees all look the same, and the pain is making him light-headed. Gasping for breath, he rests against a tree trunk and reaches into his pocket with shaking hands. 

His phone is broken. That second crack he heard must have been the screen shattering. He pounds at it, mumbling long-memorized prayers under his breath, but it remains blank. 

Cas tips his head back against the trunk and lets out a groan. Foolish, foolish, foolish. He’s out in the middle of the forest with an ankle that’s sprained at least, a snowstorm that’s getting worse by the minute, and no way of contacting anyone to come to his aid. 

He’ll just have to keep going. 

Every step is torturous. His lips are raw from sinking his teeth into them against the pain, and he can’t help feeling like he’s going in circles. The trees show no sign of thinning out, and his chest is becoming more and more constricted, his harsh breathing echoing in his own ears. 

When he stumbles, it’s almost a relief to have the support of the ground beneath him. The snow is soft, and Cas reaches out to shove handfuls of it into his mouth, grateful for the moisture. He’ll just lie here for a moment, and then he’ll go on.

His legs refuse to cooperate. Summoning all the stubbornness he has, which is a considerable amount, he pulls himself along the ground, refusing to give in. He’ll crawl back to the truck if he has to.

A few yards further, he stops again. His body is betraying him, though his mind rails against its weakness. He drags himself forward another few inches, his eyes fighting to stay open. This was a terrible idea, and he has no one to blame for it but himself.

Rolling onto his back, he looks up at the shadowed outlines of the trees, the snow falling heavily on his exposed face. The wind howls above him, but he can’t feel it. He can’t feel much of anything. 

Against his will, his eyes drift closed. The howling grows louder, and he surrenders to the cold and the dark.


	11. Chapter 11

Awareness creeps in gradually. Something is moving near him, quietly and carefully. His fingers and toes are still cold, but he can move them. His ankle throbs, reminding him of his own foolishness, and his lips are dry and cracked. 

Opening his eyes takes effort. At first, he doesn’t recognize his surroundings. A fire is crackling nearby, and he closes his eyes again and relishes its warmth on his face. 

“You’re up.”

That voice. That, he does recognize.

Cas’ eyes snap open and he swings his legs down from the couch he’s laid out on, but he forgets about his ankle in his haste. He crumples to the floor, or he would, if he weren’t caught by a pair of strong arms.

“Easy,” Dean says. He guides Cas back onto the couch, stepping away with his hands raised in front of him. 

“What--” Cas’ voice is rough, his throat hoarse. Dean makes an impatient noise and disappears for a moment, coming back with a glass of water and pressing it into Cas’ hand. Cas sips at it slowly, watching Dean over the top of the glass. Dean doesn’t offer any explanation, just waits, his posture radiating wariness. 

“How did I get here?” Cas asks, draining the water. Dean reaches out and takes it from his hand, going to the kitchen to refill it. 

“I found you in the woods.”

As far as answers go, it’s unsatisfying. “You were out in the woods in the middle of a snowstorm?”

Dean raises an eyebrow at him. “So were you.”

They stare at each for a few minutes, neither willing to look away. The room is quiet other than the occasional crack from the fireplace. No matter Dean’s reasons for being out in the storm, Cas likely would have died without him. It’s an unsettling thought, owing his life to this man. 

“Thank you,” he says stiffly. 

Something that might be amusement flickers in Dean’s eyes. “Don’t sound so pleased about it.”

Cas ignores him. “How did you find me? I wasn’t even anywhere near here.”

“You were, actually.” Dean shrugs loosely. “You probably got turned around in the woods. It happens, when you don’t know the area well.”

“And you just stumbled across me and what, dragged me back to your house to recover?” He doesn’t mean to sound so accusatory. He should be more grateful. 

A muscle jumps in Dean’s jaw. “Pretty much, yeah. Is that so hard to believe?”

“You don’t even like me.” It’s childish, and petulant, but the words escape Cas’ mouth before he can stop them. A flush rises in his cheeks, one he can’t entirely blame on the warmth of the fire.

“Doesn’t mean I was going to let you die out there.” Dean sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Look. We’ve both had a long night. Go back to sleep. We’ll deal with this in the morning.”

Cas wants to argue, but he knows Dean is right. He nods once, then pulls the blankets over himself and rolls over, his back to Dean. He hears Dean poke around with the fire, building it back up, and then nothing. 

His guilt is a leaden weight in his chest, but he falls asleep despite it.

He feels much better the second time he wakes. Light filters in through the windows, but it’s a grey, hazy sort of brightness. Cas sits up, wincing at the sharp pain that shoots through his ankle as he moves it, and reaches for his phone before remembering that he broke it the night before.

Which means he’s entirely dependent on Dean.

Cursing softly to himself, Cas wobbles to his feet. Keeping one hand on the back of the couch, he’s able to hop forward until he can reach the fire, stoking it back to a roaring blaze. He holds his hands out in front of it, the last of the chill finally fading from his bones. 

A creaking sound behind him alerts him to Dean’s presence, but he doesn’t turn. A few minutes later, he hears the familiar gurgle of a coffee maker starting up, the rich aroma soon filling the small room. 

“You should stay off your feet.” Good advice, but delivered in the most grudging of tones. Cas looks over to where Dean stands with arms crossed over his chest, watching him. “I don’t think it’s broken, but it’s definitely sprained.”

Cas holds his gaze as he drags himself back to the couch and falls onto it with less grace than he hoped for. The side of Dean’s mouth curls up in the slightest of grins, but whether it’s mockery or genuine amusement, Cas can’t tell. 

“Coffee?” Dean asks.

“Please. Black.”

Dean brings two steaming mugs over to the couch and hands one to Cas, settling at the opposite end of the couch. It’s big enough to leave a good distance between them, but Cas is all too aware of his nearness. He has lived through things that would cause most people to crumble to pieces, and yet this is the most uncomfortable he’s ever felt.

“What the hell were you thinking, wandering around in the woods in the middle of a snowstorm?” Dean asks abruptly. His fingers are tightly curled around his mug. “If I hadn’t found you--”

“I know.” Cas takes a sip of his coffee and swallows roughly. “It was reckless. Like you said, I don’t know the area. I suppose I should consider myself lucky I wandered towards your property, and that you were out last night as well.”

“Luck doesn’t have much to do with it,” Dean mutters. “The snow’s still coming down. First storm of the year is always a bad one. It’s going to be piled up at the door pretty soon, and there’s no sense digging ourselves out until it stops.”

Cas looks at him, tilting his head to the side. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, Agent, that it looks like we’re stuck with each other.”

Resisting the urge to throw his head back and groan at the absurdity of it all, Cas takes another sip of his coffee. “Well,” he says. “Please don’t feel you have to hover on my behalf. I’m sure you have things to do.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Do you ever unclench? Jesus.”

It startles a laugh out of Cas. “Vivid,” he comments. 

“Look,” Dean says. “We’ve got reasons to be careful around each other. But if we’re going to be sharing this space for the foreseeable future, can we agree to a truce?”

“Like we did at the church?” Cas asks softly, and sees Dean’s eyes flare wide with remembrance.

“Yeah.”

Slowly, Cas nods. “Very well, then.”

A truce between them looks something like this: sitting on the couch together until they’ve both finished their coffee, not another word spoken but with the awkwardness banished. Dean making omelettes for breakfast, moving around the kitchen while Cas watches from the couch, admiring the breadth of his shoulders under his plaid shirt. Cas borrowing Dean’s phone to call Donna and let her know where he is, listening to her exclaim over him and promise to get the road crews out to plow as soon as possible. Dean asking, tentatively, if there’s anyone else Cas needs to call, then leaving the room to give Cas privacy as he checks in with Charlie, his voice lowered so Dean won’t overhear. 

After lunch, Dean brings his laptop out to the table. “Might as well get some work done,” he says. 

“What are you working on?” Cas asks.

Immediately, Dean’s shoulders tense, the fragile peace between them broken so easily. “Just work stuff.”

Cas closes his eyes for a brief second, recovering his patience, then opens them again. “I’m just making conversation.”

“You need to get better at making your questions sound less like accusations, then.”

“Well if you weren’t so evasive, I wouldn’t have to be so suspicious,” Cas snaps.

Dean turns in his chair, mouth open to make some retort, but then he pauses and shakes his head. “Christ,” he mutters. “Listen to us. We sound like an old married couple.”

They really do. Cas fights back a grin. “It must be the enforced domesticity,” he suggests.

“Must be,” Dean agrees. He turns back to his computer, but every few minutes, Cas feels his gaze flicker over to the couch. 

He waits until the silence has grown comfortable and tries again. “So, what are you working on?”

This time, when Dean looks up, there’s no wariness in his eyes, just a studied casualness. “It’s a new website for the town. They’re testing it for readability and ease of use.”

“So, what, you tell them how helpful it is?” 

“Basically. And what they can do to improve it, from both a design and a language perspective.”

It actually sounds quite interesting. Cas would like to know more, but he doesn’t want to interrupt, so he just nods, gazing around the room. His eyes light on the large bookcase, and he glances back at Dean, who is absorbed in his work again.

“Do you mind if I borrow a book?” he asks.

“What?” Dean looks up, brow furrowed. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry, I should have-- go ahead.”

Like he was the first time, Cas is impressed with the variety of titles on Dean’s shelves. He scans them carefully, conscious of spending too much time on his feet, but his ankle doesn’t throb too badly. He eventually selects a historical novel with an intriguing description and a gorgeous green cover, highlighted with gold. 

It reminds him of Dean’s eyes. 

Cas stumbles back to the couch, raising the book to his eyes to cover his face. This is not the time to be marveling over the myriad shades of green in Dean’s eyes or how the slight frown on his face as he scans over his screen makes him look adorably displeased. Just because Dean saved his life doesn’t mean--

Well. It probably does mean he isn’t a killer. But that’s still no reason for Cas to let his guard down. No matter how attractive he is, no matter how wonderful it feels to be in the same room as him without being at each other’s throats, Dean Winchester is still hiding something.

Fortunately, the book is absorbing, and Cas soon loses himself in the words. It isn’t until he hears Dean’s laptop click closed that he looks up and realizes that several hours have passed.

“Are you hungry?” Dean asks, stretching his arms over his head and rolling his neck from side to side. It puts the long lines of his torso on shameless display, and Cas looks away, entrancing as the sight is. 

“A bit,” Cas admits. 

Dean nods and gets to his feet. “I’ve got all sorts of stuff in the freezer.”

Cas barely refrains from mentioning how impressed he had been at the variety of meals Deen keeps in his freezer. As far as Dean knows, this is only the second time Cas has ever been in his home, and he’ll have to be careful to keep that illusion in place. “I’m not picky,” he replies.

He is tired, though. And growing steadily more uncomfortable in the clothes he’s been wearing since the night before. Dean must have taken his coat and boots off when he brought him home, but other than that, all his layers are in place. 

Clearing his throat, he keeps his voice as polite as possible. “Do you think I might trouble you for the use of your shower?”

Dean looks over, eyes widening. “Of course,” he says quickly. “Shit, sorry. I should have offered earlier.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking away. “Guess I’m not really used to having guests.”

Cas knew that, but hearing Dean admit it is oddly painful. “It’s alright,” he says. 

“Here,” Dean says, quickly crossing the room and offering a hand to help pull Cas to his feet. “Let’s get you down the hall, and I’ll grab some clothes for you to change into.”

“That would be wonderful.” Leaning on Dean’s arm, Cas hobbles the short distance to the bathroom, and he begins peeling off his layers while Dean disappears to bring him some fresh clothing. 

“Here.” Dean passes him a bundle of fabric. “I’ll get dinner started. Don’t fall over in there and make me come rescue you again, alright?”

Both the joke and the image it conjures send a rush of warmth through Cas’ body. He coughs, trying to cover his reaction. “I think I can manage,” he says dryly, and waves Dean away.

The warm water feels wonderful on his aching body. He wonders how long he was out in the snow before Dean found him. Despite the temperature, he shivers. Cas doesn’t pray anymore, but he does take a moment to direct his gratitude out into the universe. He’s having a hard time properly showing it to Dean, so he hopes this makes up for it. 

Dean left him a pair of loose sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt. They fit surprisingly well, and Cas feels infinitely better now that he’s refreshed and in new clothes. His ankle still hurts, but it’s more of a dull throb than the piercing pain from earlier. It bears him up well enough as he slowly makes his way back out to the main area of the house.

“Something smells good,” he says.

Dean turns around with a start, a wooden spoon clutched in one hand. “Jesus, warn a guy,” he says. “How are you so stealthy with a busted ankle?”

Cas shrugs, amused at having thrown Dean off so easily. “Long practice.”

“Right. Well, have a seat.” Dean waves him to the table. “This will be ready soon. You want a beer?”

He doesn’t meet Cas’ eyes as he speaks, and there’s a rushed quality to his words. Cas tilts his head to the side, observing him, and then it hits him: Dean is nervous. 

And why shouldn’t he be? He’s been forced to play host to Cas, and now that there’s no work to distract him, the reality of the situation is sinking in. Eating dinner together, especially at this small table in this tiny house, is an oddly intimate activity. And by his own admission, Dean doesn’t often entertain guests.

The most Cas can do is his best to be gracious. After all, he was the one who was foolish enough to go wandering around in the woods at night in a snowstorm. Dean saved him, and Cas refuses to be more of a burden than he already is. “That would be nice,” he says. 

Dean nods and grabs two beers from the fridge, popping them open and passing one over to Cas. “It’s a local brew,” he explains. 

“One of the nice things about traveling so much for work is getting to experience all the different local offerings, both food and drink,” Cas says, raising his bottle in a salute. 

Leaning against the counter, Dean takes a long pull from his beer. “Where do you call home when you’re not on the road, Agent?”

_Nowhere_ would be the most accurate answer, but Cas isn’t about to open the discussion to his complicated feelings on the matter. “Kansas,” he says instead. “But I don’t spend much time there, really.”

Displaying more tact than Cas would have expected from him, Dean lets the matter drop. “Where’s your favourite place you’ve been sent for work?” he asks instead.

“That’s an unfair question,” Cas protests. “Every place has different things that make it special. Comparison is never accurate.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but there’s a trace of a smile hovering around his lips. Cas wonders what it would look like if it were allowed to spread fully across his face. He’s confident it would be breathtaking. 

Cas considers it for a minute. “There’s something special about the Pacific Northwest,” he says eventually. “The coast and the mountains. I would like to spend more time there.”

“Haven’t been there in years,” Dean says. His eyes have gone distant. “I’ve got good memories of it, though.”

Right. He had mentioned once that his family moved around a lot before settling here in Maine. “What about you? What’s your favourite place that you’ve visited?”

The distance in Dean’s eyes is quickly replaced by blankness. “Right here,” he answers. “I’m the local hermit, remember?”

He turns and busies himself at the stove while Cas inwardly curses himself. He tries to come up with some way to salvage the conversation but fails. Fortunately, he’s saved by the timing of their food being ready.

Dean has made a fragrant and hearty beef stew that’s perfectly suited to the early winter weather. “This is delicious,” Cas says after his first bite. 

“Thanks.” Dean regards him steadily across the table. “It’s an old family recipe.”

Those few brief words speak volumes. Once upon a time, Dean was part of a warm, loving family. Cas remembers what he said about his mother, during that strange, dreamlike conversation they held in the abandoned church. _She was the love of his life_. But even then, even after losing her, what could have caused John Winchester to leave his two young sons behind? And what could have prompted Sam to move to Caribou and presumably never look back?

Despite the careful entente between them, he hasn’t earned the right to ask.

“I’m a terrible cook,” he says abruptly. “I burn toast all the time. All my eggs stick to the pan.”

Dean looks up, lips twitching. “You burn toast? You know there are different settings, right?”

“I know.” Cas shrugs. “I put it in, then forget about it, so it gets cold and I have to re-toast it, and it ends up burned.”

“And yet they let you carry a badge and a gun?” Dean raises one eyebrow and shakes his head in bemusement. “Can’t say that gives me a lot of faith in our bureau, Agent.”

“Aidan,” Cas says. It isn’t even his real name, but somehow, Dean calling him Agent doesn’t sit right with him. Not when they’re sharing this space and talking like this. Not when the barriers between them are being, if not torn down, then at least peered over. 

“Aidan.” Dean tests the name out, looking steadily at Cas as he does. It sounds good in his voice. It would sound even better if it were Cas’ real name. A wave of longing crashes over him, and he drains the last of his beer to swallow it down.

“Maybe when I wrap up this case, I’ll take some time off.” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying. Nonsense, really, but he doesn’t want this moment to end. “Take a cooking class somewhere.”

“You should. You’ll be a regular Julia Child in no time.” Dean salutes him with his beer bottle, which is also now empty. “You want another one?”

He shouldn’t. It would take more than two beers to get him anywhere near drunk, but he’s still tired and aware of the pain in ankle, and still more than a little suspicious of Dean. “No, thank you.”

Dean nods. “Coffee? I’ve got decaf.”

For all his protests about not having guests often, Dean is certainly playing host well. His warmth and care are genuine and natural. It’s tragic that he doesn’t have anywhere to direct them more frequently. 

“That would be wonderful.” Cas gives him a grateful smile, and though Dean doesn’t quite return it, his eyes do light up. 

Cas looks out the window, where the snow is still steadily drifting from the sky in powdery flakes. “It’s beautiful,” he says softly. 

Dean follows the direction of his gaze. “It is,” he agrees. “It’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but it’s beautiful.”

Cas wonders how long it will last, but he knows better than to ask Dean his opinion on the matter. It might seem like he’s itching to leave. 

They retire to the living room, Cas stretched out on the couch while Dean rebuilds the fire and then takes a seat in the armchair. It’s a seductively cozy tableau, one that sends Cas’ thoughts drifting down a dangerous path. He can imagine a whole life filled with evenings just like this, quiet contentment and steady company. 

Or, he thinks, looking at the classic lines of Dean’s face in the flickering firelight, something more physical. A different kind of closeness.

He yawns, too late to politely cover his mouth with his hand. Dean catches the movement and gives him a concerned look. “Tired?”

“Yes,” Cas admits. “I’ve done nothing but laze around all day, and yet--” he shrugs.

“Not like there was anything better to do.” Dean stands and collects their empty coffee cups. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He moves towards the back of his house, but then pauses, looking back over his shoulder. “Are you-- I don’t want to make your ankle worse. I’ve fallen asleep on that couch before, but it’s probably not great two nights in a row.”

“It’s fine,” Cas assures him. He’s slept in worse places, like the cab of his truck, too many times to count. 

“Have you ever noticed that when people say something is fine, they usually mean it’s about as far from fine as it can be?” Dean bites his lip, then seems to come to a decision. “I’ve got a spare room. It’ll be a bit colder without the fire in there, but the bed’s a lot more comfortable.”

Cas remembers the other bedroom from his first, unauthorized visit here. The feeling of emptiness to it. It was unsettling, but he can’t deny that the thought of sleeping in a real bed rather than on a couch that’s slightly too short for him is a tempting one. 

“If you don’t mind,” he says. 

“Of course not.” There’s a forced note of cheerfulness of Dean’s voice, but he was the one to offer. Cas won’t press the matter. “Bed’s all made up already. You want a hand?”

He’s halfway across the room before Cas can answer, supporting his weight as they slowly make their way towards the bedroom. As promised, the bed is neatly made, and Cas sits on it with a sigh of relief. The better he sleeps tonight, the faster he’ll heal from his ordeal the night before. And then, as long as the weather cooperates, he can be out of Dean’s space and the strangely amicable peace they’ve settled into.

“So, uh.” Dean hovers in the doorway, leaning against the wall. “If there’s anything you need, I’m just across the hall.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Cas looks up at him, unsure what to make of his solicitousness. It’s a remarkable change from the hostility and indignation Dean radiated during their earliest meetings, and an equally remarkable change from the quiet, introspective sadness he displayed during their encounter in the church. Like most people, Dean Winchester contains multitudes, and for once, Cas wants to discover all the endless pieces that make up his whole. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean swallows visibly and nods. “Yeah. No problem. Goodnight, Agent-- Aidan.”

It’s so close to what Cas truly wants to hear. For now, it will have to be enough. “Goodnight.”

He lets out a deep breath as Dean closes the door behind him. Cas pulls back the covers and climbs into bed, rolling to look out the window at the steadily falling snow.

He can’t decide if he wants it to be done by morning, or if he hopes it never stops.


	12. Chapter 12

The snow continues to fall the next day. Cas wakes slowly, luxuriating in the comfort of the bed and the warmth of the blankets over him. The house is quiet, and he almost turns over and goes back to sleep when reality hits him with a force like a blow. Carefully levering himself out of the bed, he tests his ankle and is pleased to find it bears him up slightly better than it did the day before. 

After a brief stop in the bathroom, he makes his way out to the main room. Dean is already awake, standing at the kitchen window with his back to Cas. The coffee maker gurgles beside him, and Cas steps closer, imagining what it would be like to wake up to a scene like this every morning. To close the distance between them and press a kiss to the back of Dean’s neck, to burrow his own face against the soft material of his robe. 

“Good morning,” he says. His voice is rough from sleep. “It’s still snowing?”

Dean turns, and though he doesn’t quite smile, his face lightens. “Good morning. Yeah, it’s still snowing. Slowing down a bit, I think, but no sign of stopping.”

There’s no way Cas can reply to that without sounding ungracious. So he just nods.

“Coffee will be ready soon,” Dean continues. “How’s the ankle?”

Cas wobbles over to the table and takes a seat. “Better. Slightly.”

“Good.”

They lapse into silence while Dean busies himself preparing the coffee. He places a mug on the table in front of Cas, who accepts it with murmured thanks. Dean sits opposite him, but they don’t make eye contact.

This can’t be pleasant for Dean. As much as he’s tried to be a good host, Cas has long overstayed his welcome. He’s intruding on the personal space of a man who highly values his privacy. Dean saved his life. The least Cas can do is stop being such a disruption to his. 

He finishes his coffee and rises to his feet. “I’m sure you have plenty of work to get done. I’ll stay out of your way.”

Dean looks up at him, expression unreadable. “Sure.”

Cas nods stiffly, deposits his mug in the sink, and picks up his book before making his way back to the bedroom. He feels Dean’s eyes on him the whole way.

Closing the door behind him, Cas lets out a deep breath. If only his phone weren’t broken beyond repair, he could at least use this time to do something productive, like go over some of his notes on the case. He barely spared a thought for it the day before, letting himself be distracted by the appealingly domestic scenes he and Dean were playing out. 

Flopping back on the bed, Cas frowns up at the ceiling, furious with himself. He didn’t choose to take a break from his investigation, not really, but he did choose to take the risk of going out in the woods by himself two nights ago. Now he’s forced to wait out the snow, putting the entire case on hold, at least from his end. Donna and the deputies will still be working, he knows, but they don’t have all the information. For the first time in his three years as a hunter, he wonders whether it would be useful to tell them exactly what kind of killer they’re looking for. If it would help keep them safe, and if it would help them catch the perpetrator. 

He doesn’t think they’ve quite reached that point. He’d rather admit that he was wrong and ask Charlie to send back-up than give Donna the talk about the supernatural. She would probably take it in stride after her initial disbelief, but if Cas can spare her the knowledge, he will. 

The snow continues to fall. Cas is beginning to hate the sight of it.

He spends a few hours reading, until he’s interrupted by a soft knock at the door. “Yes?” 

Dean sticks his head inside the room. “I heated up some soup for lunch, if you’re hungry.” He doesn’t meet Cas’ eyes.

“Thank you.” Cas lowers the book and gets up, his ankle wobbling slightly beneath his weight. Dean makes an instinctive move forward, but Cas holds up a hand to stop him, and he halts just inside the doorway. Cas takes a tentative step and regains his balance. “I’m fine.”

“Right.” Dean hovers for a moment, then turns sharply and exits the room.

The soup is delicious, but Cas’ guilt turns it sour in his mouth. They eat in silence, and as soon as they’ve finished, Dean collects their bowls and turns back to his computer. It’s as clear a dismissal as can be. 

He’s already almost finished the one book, so Cas takes a moment to select another before limping back to the bedroom. He doesn’t quite slam the door behind him, but in a house this small and quiet, the loud thud it makes will still be audible. 

By late afternoon, his frustration reaches a boiling point. He only has himself to be angry with, and only himself for company, and he’s sick of it. He throws open the bedroom door and gathers up his own clothes, which have been left to dry in the bathroom. Holding the pile of fabric in his arms, he strides out to the living area as best he can on his injured ankle.

“I’m leaving,” he announces. 

Dean looks up from his computer, frowning. His eyes sweep over the pile of clothes in Cas’ arms, and he slowly closes his laptop, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s still snowing.”

“I’ve noticed.” Cas begins pulling on layers of clothing. “I don’t care. I need to get back out there. I have a case to solve.”

“You won’t make it far on that ankle,” Dean points out. 

Cas waves away his words. “I’ll be fine. It isn’t that far from here to where I left my truck.”

“In this snow, it will seem ten times further.” Dean shakes his head. “I really can’t let you go out there, Agent.”

“What I do is no concern of yours, Mr. Winchester.” Cas’ voice is muffled by the sweater he’s pulling over his head, but he still sees Dean draw back at the coldness of his voice.

“It is if I’m going to have to go out there and rescue you,” Dean snaps. “Again.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Cas gives him his best, most insincere smile. “Thank you for coming to my assistance the other night, and for the hospitality you’ve shown me since then. But I really must be going.”

Somewhat to his surprise, Dean doesn’t physically try to prevent him from leaving. He just watches, mouth set in a tight line, as Cas makes his way to the front door and struggles to pull it open. When he does, a pile of fluffy snow comes tumbling in, along with a rush of wind that sends Cas staggering back a step, his ankle turning painfully under him.

A large hand reaches out and firmly shuts the door, then grabs Cas by the elbow and steers him back towards the couch. “Let me go,” Cas protests. 

“Why are you in such a rush to leave?” Dean counters. He’s standing awfully close, still holding Cas by the elbow, their faces mere inches apart. 

“Because a young man is dead, and I’m sitting here playing house with you and doing absolutely nothing to catch the killer or to prevent them from striking again!”

The words take them both by surprise. Dean’s eyes flare wide, and he opens his mouth to reply, then shakes his head. Cas removes Dean’s hand from his arm and staggers over to the couch, sitting down heavily and dropping his face into his hands.

He hears the creak of the armchair as Dean lowers himself into it. Neither speaks while Cas struggles to regain control over himself.

Eventually, Dean breaks the silence. “Is that why you were out in the woods in the first place? Something to do with the investigation?”

“Yes.” Cas doesn’t look up.

Dean sighs. “Well, if nothing else, you’re committed to your job. And look, you haven’t been wasting your time here with me. I’m sure you’ve been carefully watching every move, waiting for me to slip up and admit I killed him.” 

Cas glances up, startled by the bitterness in Dean’s voice. His hands are tightly clenched on the arms of the chair, and for a brief moment, Cas thinks he sees something like hurt in his eyes.

“I haven’t--” he starts to protest, but it isn’t entirely true. He has wondered about Dean’s motives, wondered if this could all be some sort of ruse to get into Cas’ good graces and out from under the shadow of suspicion.

Running a hand through his hair, Dean stands. “It’s fine,” he says. “We don’t have to like this, but as you saw, leaving isn’t really an option. I’d really rather not have to drag your unconscious ass back here again, alright?”

What other choice does Cas have? “Alright,” he agrees.

It’s easier after that. Dean makes them spaghetti for dinner, and Cas is allowed to cook the pasta. He’s absurdly pleased when Dean pronounces it perfect. They chat lightly about the books Cas has borrowed from Dean’s shelves and about places they’ve both visited. It’s pleasant and entertaining without being the least bit personal. 

After dinner, Dean makes them hot chocolate and they argue briefly but good-naturedly over movies before settling on The Princess Bride. 

“Best thing on a cold night like this,” Dean says. Cas smiles over the top of his mug and lets the rich liquid linger in his mouth before swallowing it down. 

He dozes off somewhere in the middle of the movie, lulled to sleep by the warmth of the fire and the familiar dialogue. He wakes to find Dean pulling a blanket over his shoulders, freezing in place when he realizes Cas is awake.

“Sorry, Aidan.” It’s spoken in hushed tones, barely above a whisper. Dean is still leaning over him, their faces close together. “I was going to head to bed, but you looked so relaxed out here--”

Cas shakes his head and pushes himself upright, which has the fortunate effect of putting some distance between them again. “I should do the same.”

Neither of them moves.

After a long, tense pause, Dean licks his lips. “Well. Goodnight, then.” He straightens up and walks off towards his bedroom without looking back.

Cas waits until he hears the door close, then gets to his feet with a groan. He wanted so badly to reach up, to cradle Dean’s face in his hands, to close the last inches between them and press their lips together. It would be a monumentally unwise thing to do, and Cas should be glad he resisted the urge, but instead, he inwardly berates himself all the way down the short hall to the bedroom. 

The bed feels too wide and empty with just him in it, but eventually, he falls asleep.

***

He can’t say what wakes him. The darkness is absolute, and the house is quiet around him. Rolling upright in the bed, he peers out the window. As his eyes adjust, he notes it’s still snowing, but less fiercely than it was earlier in the evening.

A low, mournful howl pierces the silence of the night. 

Cas pulls back from the window, heart pounding rapidly in his chest. That wasn’t the wind. Another howl sounds, closer this time. Something moves at the edge of the trees surrounding the house. He isn’t an expert on wolf territories, but he didn’t think there were wolves in Maine, though the landscape could support them. 

And yet, as the shadow creeps closer, coming out from the cover of the trees, it resolves itself into the unmistakable form of a wolf.

Cas’ breath fogs up the window. The wolf is headed directly towards the house, moving with purpose if not particular speed. It’s an extraordinary creature, large and noble, with vivid silver and white markings on its mostly grey body. Its plumed tail waves jauntily in the air almost like a dog at play, but there’s no mistaking the fact that it is no tame pet. 

Within a few feet of the house, it comes to a sudden stop. Cas’ breathing does the same. There’s a strange rippling movement, and in the blink of an eye, the wolf is gone, replaced by a tall, broad-shouldered, naked man.

Cas pulls himself away from the window, frantic thoughts crowding through his brain. He’s been fooled all along. Dean is the werewolf, though he’s like no other Cas has ever seen. To transform entirely into a wolf-- it must be indicative of some greater strength. And only hours ago, Cas was thinking about kissing him. 

With shaking hands, he locates his gun in the pocket of his coat, grateful beyond measure that Dean left it there and that he brought it back to his room tonight. Creeping out of his room as quietly as he can, Cas moves through the dark house, taking up position behind the front door. A bead of sweat makes it slow way down from his temple, but his hands are steady.

The door creaks, and Cas turns to meet the monster he’s been hunting.

Dean is silhouetted in the doorway, now dressed in his usual flannel and jeans. His eyes meet Cas’, and though his shoulders snap back and his eyes go wide, he makes no move to attack.

Cas levels the gun directly at his heart. Dean’s throat moves visibly as he swallows.

He should shoot him now. He saw the evidence with his own two eyes. He was right to be suspicious of Dean this whole time. But he hesitates.

“I didn’t kill Ryan Garland,” Dean says. Considering the circumstances, his voice is remarkably steady. “Please. You have to believe me.”

“Why should I believe anything you say?” Cas keeps the gun trained on him, watching for signs of sudden movement.

“You’re a hunter, aren’t you.” It isn’t a question. “I should have known. You’re a terrible fed.”

There’s no point denying it. “I am a hunter. And that means it’s my job to put you down.”

Dean closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, there’s a terrible despair in their depths. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve never hurt anyone.”

“You’re a monster.” 

“And you kill monsters.” Slowly, carefully, Dean spreads his hands before him. It’s a gesture of helplessness, of surrender. “I’m not going to fight you. But you have to believe me. Killing me won’t solve anything. Whatever killed Ryan is still going to be out there.”

“A werewolf killed Ryan Garland.” For the merest of instances, Cas’ hold on the gun wavers. “I saw you. You were a wolf, and then you were you again. Don’t try to tell me you’re not a werewolf.”

“I’m not.” A shadow of a mocking smile curls around Dean’s lips. “Not as you know them, anyway. The preferred term is _loup-garou_.”

Cas frowns. “Rugaru?”

“No, though there is a family relation. _Loup-garou_. The French word for werewolf, but also more than that.” Dean reaches behind him to close the door, and Cas tightens his grip on the gun. “Like you saw, we transform into actual wolves. And most importantly, we don’t eat hearts, human or animal.”

“You’re still a monster.” Cas’ voice is barely above a whisper, and he can’t say who he’s trying to convince, himself or Dean.

“Maybe.” Dean shrugs. “But if you kill me, and I’m innocent, what does that make you?”

Another drop of sweat works its way down Cas’ face. Dean makes no move to flee, no move to attack, no move even to defend himself. Cas breathes in deeply, then lets it out in a rush. 

He lowers the gun.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the couch. “Explain.”

Dean does as he’s told, keeping a wary eye on the gun still held in Cas’ hand as he does. He sits upright, hands clasped over his knees, back slightly hunched. It’s about as far from threatening a position as one can take. 

“I don’t know where to start,” he admits.

“At the beginning.” Cas keeps his words brisk, businesslike. “How did you become this-- _loup-garou_? Were you born like this?”

“No. It can pass in families if the father is cursed before he has sons, but I was born human. So was Sam.”

“Cursed,” Cas repeats. “What do you mean?”

Dean takes a moment before answering. “There are a lot of different versions of the story. You know how the lore gets changed as it gets passed on.” He looks up, and Cas nods. “It’s an old folk tale from Quebec. If a man breaks the commandments of Lent seven years in a row, he’s cursed to turn into a wolf at night. He can break the curse by confessing his sins to a priest. Or, in another version, the curse is triggered by not attending Mass for seven years.”

“Is that what you did?”

“Me?” Dean shakes his head. “No. I’ve never been a churchgoer. It started with my dad. Or with my mom.”

He isn’t making a terrible deal of sense, and it does nothing to help ease Cas’ suspicions. “You’re not making a compelling argument.”

Dean shakes his head, but it isn’t a denial. “I know. I’ve just--” he spreads his hands before him. “I’ve never told this to anyone before. It isn’t easy to explain.”

“A number of lives may depend upon it,” Cas tells him. “Try.”

Dean stares at him for a moment, then nods. “Okay. Well. My mom died when I was four. I told you about them, that day at the church. She was the love of my dad’s life. And after she died, he changed. In more ways than one.”

He stares off into the distance, shoulders stiff. “I didn’t think much of it at the time. We were just kids, and it always seemed like an adventure, moving around so much. I missed my mom, but me and dad and Sam, we were happy. Or as happy as we could be.”

Despite himself, Cas is drawn into the tale. “And then what happened?”

Dean meets his eyes, his own hollow. “Just around my twelfth birthday, we were somewhere in the middle of Iowa. It was a full moon. I’d been feeling awful all day, but I thought it was just a growth spurt. Sam was already in bed, and then, the next thing I knew, I had become the wolf.”

“It took that long to manifest?” Cas wishes he had his journal with him to take notes on what Dean is telling him. It could prove useful to other hunters in the future.

“Guess so.” Dean shrugs loosely. “Dad told me everything the next morning. How the transformation was entirely our choice, except on the full moon. We have to change on the full moon. And if we stay a wolf past sunrise, we’ll be stuck that way. He was so devastated. He never thought his curse would be passed on to us. After that, it was just a matter of waiting, and sure enough, when Sam turned twelve, the same thing happened to him.”

“But it’s a curse for lack of devotion.” Cas frowns. He can’t find the connection between the original tale and what happened to Dean’s family. “Did you father observe Lent before and stop after your mother died?”

“No.” Dean shakes his head. “He was raised Catholic, just like she was, and they were married in the church. But they were never particularly observant.”

“What do you think happened, then?”

Dean doesn’t answer for a long time. “I think he loved her,” he says quietly, “and she died. I think she took the light and the faith out of his world when she left it.”

“Not lack of devotion, but lack of faith.” It makes a certain amount of sense. A curse adapting itself to modern times. “A loss of faith so tremendous it affected you and Sam as well.”

“I said her death changed him in more ways than one, didn’t I?” Dean looks up with a grimace. “It changed all of us.”

Cas takes a moment to do the math, and it all adds up. “That’s when you moved here. After Sam changed.”

Dean nods. “Dad wanted us to have a stable home, at least. Somewhere we could go on the full moon, somewhere we wouldn’t be found.”

“You couldn’t have just broken the curse? Gone to confession?” 

“What makes you think we didn’t try?” Dean lets out a bitter laugh. “Dad went to churches all over the country, and nothing worked. As for me and Sam--” he shrugs. “We were just kids. It made us feel special at first. But when we moved here and people started whispering about us right away, we both tried to break it. It didn’t work for us either.”

“Maybe,” Cas says, “it takes a different sort of confession.”

Dean laughs again. “Trust a priest-turned-hunter to figure it out way before we ever did. Sam was the one who worked it all out. He was always the smart one. By the time he left when he was eighteen, he’d broken the curse for himself.”

“How?”

“He’s never even told me exactly what it took. It was a confession, he said, but not the kind you’d think.” Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “I guess it’s different for everyone.”

There’s something missing from Dean’s story, something he hasn’t yet explained. “Dean,” he says carefully, “what happened to your father?”

Even in the dim light of the room, he sees Dean flinch. “He left.”

“He died?”

“No,” Dean replies tightly. “He left.” His hands are firmly wrapped around his knees once more. “He started changing more and more often. Not just on full moons, but almost every night. And when he was here, he was distant. Withdrawn. Or drunk. And one night, when Sam was sixteen, he didn’t come home. I haven’t seen him since.”

Cas closes his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

To be abandoned like that, by one’s own parent-- he can’t imagine the pain. The confusion. The desperate hope that someday they might come home. The empty bedroom Cas has been occupying must have been John’s. All these years, Dean has kept it ready for him, just in case.

“Two years later, Sam left too.” Dean looks up and grins, a ghastly, insincere twist of his lips. “And I became the local hermit.”

There’s so much Cas wants to say. Comfort he wants to offer. It’s a terrible story of loneliness, and Dean is still watching him like he half expects the gun to swing in his direction once more.

“I believe you,” Cas says. In case the words aren’t enough, he makes a show of placing the gun on the table, holding his empty hands in front of him.

Dean lets out a shaky breath. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “For listening.”

They stare at each other in tense silence, the firelight reflected in Dean’s eyes. “It was you,” Cas says suddenly. “Out in the woods, when I got hurt. You as the wolf.”

Dean inclines his head. “Yes.”

He must have come back for him when he realized Cas was no longer chasing him. He could have left him there, but he didn’t. 

Cas looks away. Now that the truth is out, he doesn’t know what to say. The lump in his throat doesn’t make it any easier to speak. “It’s late. We should--” he makes a vague gesture back towards the bedrooms.

“You sure you’re going to be able to sleep with a not so proverbial wolf outside your door?” Dean’s voice is teasing, but there’s genuine wariness in his eyes, and Cas can’t blame him for it.

“Are you sure you’re going to be able to sleep with a hunter outside yours?” he counters.

“Touché.” Dean gets to his feet, then turns to look back at Cas. “Hey. If you’re a hunter, I’m guessing Agent Aidan Draper isn’t your real name.”

It’s a bit of a non sequitur, but Cas nods. “It isn’t.”

“What is your real name?”

He hesitates, but only for a moment. Dean has given him precious honesty tonight. Cas can give him this much. “It’s Cas,” he says. “Cas Novak.”

“Cas,” Dean repeats. It sounds even better than Cas imagined it would, coming from his lips. “Thank you for trusting me, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to ninth grade French class for introducing me to the stories of the loup-garoux and to O.R. Melling's The Book of Dreams for some particular inspiration.


	13. Chapter 13

By morning, the snow has stopped.

As eager as Cas is to start the process of digging themselves out, he knows there’s more that he and Dean have yet to discuss. So he forces himself to be patient while they go about their morning routines, taking turns in the shower and then reconvening for coffee and pancakes in the kitchen. 

Cas watches as Dean flips a pancake in the air, grinning over his shoulder as he does. “I know you’re itching to leave, but we’ll need our strength to dig ourselves out of here and then rescue your truck from wherever you abandoned it. Assuming it hasn’t been towed.”

“Donna promised she’d take care of it.” One less thing to worry about, at least. “I’ll head straight over to the station and let her fuss over me while she gives me an update on the case.” It’s the perfect segue into the conversation he’s been trying to start. “Dean,” he says, “if you didn’t kill Ryan Garland, then who did?”

Dean freezes, shoulders going stiff. “I don’t know. I swear, Cas.”

Cas is suddenly struck by a terrible thought. “Dean, you don’t think-- your father--”

“No.” Dean’s voice is quiet, but vehement. “I think he’s long gone. And even if he were around here, I told you, we’re not like regular werewolves. We’re no threat to humans.”

He still says _we_ , Cas notes. He wonders how many times Dean has tried to break the curse over the years. Or if somewhere along the line, he stopped fighting it. 

“So someone in town is a, ah, regular werewolf, as you put it.” Cas takes a thoughtful sip of his coffee. “Any guesses?”

“I can tell you one person it isn’t,” Dean replies.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. There’s no way it’s Benny.”

A wave of jealousy crashes over Cas, startling him with its intensity. Just because they were lovers once, Dean trusts Benny so implicitly? “Why do you say that?”

“Because.” Dean throws another grin over his shoulder. “He’s a vampire.”

Cas nearly sends his chair toppling to the ground, he rises so quickly. “What?”

“Woah, woah, calm down.” Dean waves him back to a more relaxed position. “Easy. He’s just as much of a teddy bear as he looks. Bagged blood only. He hasn’t hurt anyone any more than I have.”

“And he knows about you?” Cas asks.

“Yeah.” Dean’s eyes go soft, almost fond, and the wave of jealousy rises in Cas’ chest once more. “We keep each other’s secrets.”

“I see.” Cas hopes the stiffness in his voice will be interpreted as nothing more than surprise and perhaps a hint of distrust. “Anyone else? A ghoul at the general store? A wraith at the clinic?”

“Not as far as I know,” Dean replies. “Up until Ryan died, I thought Benny and I were the only two non-humans in town.”

He sets a plate of perfectly fluffy pancakes in front of Cas, who slices them into smaller pieces with a frown on his face. “But you recognized the signs of a werewolf kill?”

“I knew it was the full moon. I knew he died horribly. But they didn’t say anything outright about his heart being missing. Didn’t want to upset people. Benny and I figured it out eventually, though.”

Cas sets down his knife and fork and levels Dean with a cold stare. “And you did nothing?”

To his credit, Dean does look somewhat embarrassed. “What was I supposed to do? I was a bit busy trying to defend myself from you and your accusations.”

They glare at one another for a minute longer, then Dean huffs and turns back to his pancakes. “If I knew anything, I would tell you. But I don’t.”

“And you don’t want to find out?” 

Dean shrugs. “Isn’t that your job?”

It is. And it’s probably the fact that he’s been failing at it so spectacularly that has Cas so furious now. “The body was found on the border of _your_ property, Dean. You’re involved in this case whether you like it or not. I believe you didn’t kill Ryan Garland, but if we never find out who did, how long do you think it will take before the whispers start up? Before people start to wonder if you were more actively involved after all?”

Dean’s jaw tightens, and his eyes flash with an equal anger. “I don’t want to be involved. I just want to be left alone.”

“You can’t run forever,” Cas tells him. “No matter how hard you try.”

“Run?” Dean scoffs. “I’m the only one in my family who hasn’t run from here. In case you didn’t notice, I’m pretty fond of staying put.”

Cas shakes his head. “There are different kinds of running. Sometimes, you run so fast, you end up standing still.”

“You think you know me now?” Dean’s voice has gone quiet. Dangerously so. “You don’t.”

“Maybe not,” Cas allows. “But I do know a thing or two about running.”

He did the extreme opposite of what Dean has done. He left his home, his friends, and his church behind him and took off as fast and as far as he could get. He lost himself in booze and dive bars and questionable decisions until he found something to give his life purpose once more. 

He just wants the same thing for Dean. It isn’t easy to express that, though, and judging by the stony look on Dean’s face, he wouldn’t be willing to listen anyway.

The rest of their meal is eaten in silence.

Afterwards, Dean pulls open the door and trudges into the snow, clearing a path with his body. Bundled up in a combination of Dean’s clothing and his own, Cas follows. His ankle has been wrapped tightly, and it bears his weight reasonably well, all things considered. Between the two of them, it doesn’t take long to clear the snow from around the door, and then to beat a path between the house and the garage.

Dean had the sense to pull his truck inside before the snow started, so it only takes a few minutes for the engine to warm up. The snow gives way under its wheels as Dean deftly maneuvers them out of the driveway and onto the road, which has been plowed at some point and is covered only by the lightest dusting of powder. As promised, Cas’ truck is exactly where he left it.

Brushing the snow off only takes a few minutes. There’s no reason for Cas to linger after that. He has an investigation to get back to. 

“Well.” He clears his throat. “Thank you, Dean. For everything.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Dean holds his brush loosely in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat. “Sorry you had to put up with me for so long.”

“That’s not--” Cas breaks off with a sigh. “No matter. Have a good day, Dean. I won’t bother you again.”

He slams the truck door shut after he enters. Dean watches him for a moment, then returns to his own vehicle. Just before he swings up into the cab, he lifts one hand in farewell, and Cas does the same.

***

At the sheriff’s station, he’s greeted like a long-lost friend. Nancy looks up from her desk and beams at him, then blushes furiously when he gives her an equally broad smile in return. “It’s good to see you, Agent.”

“You too.” He’s surprised at how much he means it. “Is the sheriff in?”

Before Nancy can reply, there’s a loud shout of joy from the back of the room, and then Cas is being caught up in a fierce embrace. “You’re back,” Donna says brightly, pulling away to smile up at him. “Just what the heck were you thinking, going out alone in a storm like that?”

“I wasn’t,” Cas admits. “Fortunately, neither was Mr. Winchester.”

Donna’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t comment. “Come on back,” she says, tugging him towards her office. “Let’s get caught up.”

Both Kevin and Garth are on the phone, but they look up and offer him welcoming smiles as he passes their desks. “So,” Donna says, shutting the office door behind them, “I guess you weren’t doing much investigating these past few days.”

“No.” Cas shakes his head. “My phone broke, and all my notes were back at the motel, and I didn’t want to ask Dean to borrow his computer when he needed it for work--”

“Woah, woah.” Donna holds up a hand to cut him off. “That wasn’t an accusation.”

Cas stops himself before he makes another excuse. “I know. I just--” he runs a hand through his hair. “I feel guilty regardless.”

“I get it.” Donna’s eyes are warm with sympathy. “We haven’t had any success either. It’s a crappy feeling, and the longer this goes on, the less likely it seems we’re going to catch the monster who did this.”

Startled by her unknowingly accurate choice of words, Cas narrows his eyes at her. Is it possible-- no. She can’t know that there are real monsters out there, and that one of them killed Ryan Garland. 

But even human killers follow patterns sometimes. If he pulls back the veil just the slightest inch, she might be able to see something he’s been missing.

“I’ve been thinking about the timing of the death,” he says. “It was the night of the full moon. So were all the murders in Caribou two years ago.”

Donna stares at him for a moment. “You think that’s relevant?”

He shrugs. “It’s a pattern. Patterns are often our biggest clues.”

“Agent, if you’re about to start talking about lunar cycles and hair sprouting in unusual places--”

“No, no.” He forces a laugh. “Nothing like that, I promise. But it does indicate a certain level of theatricality, of design. And also a certain level of premeditation.” 

Donna’s skeptical look vanishes in an instant. “You think they’ll strike again on the next full moon?”

“I do.” He isn’t about to explain why he’s so certain, but it doesn’t seem to be necessary. Donna is already nodding and turning towards the calendar pinned to the wall. 

“The next full moon is a week away.” She looks back at him, eyes determined. “We’re going to figure out who’s behind this before then, Agent.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Cas finds himself smiling. Or baring his teeth, at the very least. “Yes,” he agrees, “we are.”

***

His next stop is the general store. Theo is behind the counter, and he waves frantically as soon as he spots Cas. “Where have you been?” he demands. “I have something to show you.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Cas’ heart rate picks up at the possibility of a new lead. “What is it?”

“Upstairs.” Theo jerks his head towards the apartment above. “Chloe!”

The young woman Cas has seen behind the counter pops up from the corner. “What?”

“Cover the front for me. I’ll be back.”

She starts to protest, but then catches sight of Cas, and her eyes go wide. “Okay,” she says. “Take as long as you need.”

Theo bounds up the stairs, Cas following with slightly more decorum, but only because he’s accustomed to keeping up a professional facade. “I tried calling you,” Theo says, twisting to look back over his shoulder as he unlocks the apartment door. “A lot.”

“My phone broke.” It’s a vast oversimplification, but it will serve. The apartment is marginally tidier than usual, and Theo ushers him into a chair while he rummages through a pile of papers on the coffee table. “Perhaps it would have been wise to keep whatever is so important in a more convenient place?”

Theo has the good grace to laugh. “Yeah, I did, but then stuff piled up while I was waiting for you to call me back. Ah, here we go!” He brandishes a ordinary-looking piece of paper at Cas, an expectant look on his face.

Cas reaches out and takes the paper from him. Unfortunately, it’s not a diary entry for Ryan’s whereabouts on the day he died. It’s an application for a loan. 

“What does this have to do with anything?” he asks. Theo means well, but if this is his big news…

“Look at the date.” Theo points to the date on the top left corner of the form. “It’s from the day he died.”

Maybe it is an indication of Ryan’s whereabouts on the day he died after all. The bank is a local one, only a few doors down from where they stand right now. 

“You said he wanted to leave town.” Cas taps the paper thoughtfully. “Maybe he was starting to put that plan into action.”

“Exactly.” Theo nods eagerly. “He never said anything about it to me. About the loan. But that seems pretty decisive, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” If someone had taken issue with Ryan’s plans to leave town, this move might have been what pushed them into that final, fatal confrontation. But they still need more information. “Theo, do you have Ryan’s computer?”

Looking only slightly puzzled at the abrupt change in topic, Theo shakes his head. “No. I think his dad took it with him when he was cleaning out his bedroom. He said he would wipe it, and I could have had it afterward, but mine is newer, so I told him to keep it.”

Cas curses under his breath. There might have been some information buried in Ryan’s search history, something that might have told them more about his plans and who would have been so affected by them. By now, it has probably already been cleared. 

“If you see Mr. Garland again, please ask him about it. I’d like to have a look at it if possible.”

“You got it, Agent.” Theo looks at him, wide-eyed. “Will this help?”

It may or may not. It doesn’t give them any particularly new information, only reinforces what they already knew: that Ryan was planning to leave town. It does, however, cast further suspicion onto those who would be most affected by that change. 

Such as Camille Garland.

She left town, Cas has been told. Seeking the solitude to grieve in peace, or fleeing a guilty conscience? The primary suspect in the deaths in Caribou, Louise Newsome, is a woman around her age. Is it possible that they know each other, that they’re both werewolves? Or could Louise be innocent and Camille be the killer in both cases?

Cas wouldn’t have thought so, based on their meeting when he first arrived here. He’d found her gracious and dignified in face of her tragic loss. If it was all an act, it was a very good one. 

“Agent?” Theo’s voice disrupts him from his thoughts. “You okay? Is there anything else I can do?”

“Yes.” Cas nods. “You can come back down to the store with me, Theo, and get me a new phone. And then you can tell me where Camille Garland’s sister lives, if you know. I believe it’s time I paid her another visit.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a recollection of a past violent incident involving demonic possession in this chapter.

Camille Garland is another dead end.

Cas had acquired her sister’s address from Donna, then made the two-hour drive to pay them a call only to find out from a helpful neighbour that the two women had left for Florida three days prior and weren’t expected back for another ten days. “To take their minds off things, the poor dears,” she had said. Cas had nodded politely and thanked her for her time, all the while seething inwardly. 

Now, with only two days before the full moon, the pressure to identify the werewolf is crushing. Donna and her team have stepped up their efforts to persuade the crime lab to run the tests on the bloody shirt they found in the woods, but have been met only with empty promises. What they need is results.

He says as much to Charlie on their nightly check-in. She hasn’t had much luck with her task of tracking down Louise Newsome, the primary suspect from the murders two years ago. As far as she can tell, there’s no connection between her and Ryan’s mother. “It’s all just a big mess,” she says with a sigh. “Why are small towns always full of secrets, Cas?”

“Because they have nothing else to keep them running, I suppose.” Cas presses the phone tightly to his ear, massaging his forehead with his free hand. “Why couldn’t it just be the usual kind of secrets, like the butcher having an affair with the baker’s wife or something pedestrian like that?”

“That would be a romance novel, Cas, and we don’t live those. We live the pulpy horror novels, remember?”

Cas starts to reply, then pauses. He’d spoken in jest, but what if--

“Charlie,” he says slowly, “what if there is an affair?”

“Uh, you can tell me all about it later, but for now we should focus on the case?”

“No, no.” He stands and paces around the motel room, his conviction growing with every step he takes. “We were considering the possibility of a connection between Louise Newsome and our killer. Assume, for the moment, that Camille is innocent, that her leaving town and then running off to Florida is a perfectly normal case of fleeing from her grief rather than her guilt. The sheriff in Caribou told me that all the victims were known to have been involved with Louise at one point. What if--”

“Our killer was also involved with her?” Charlie interrupts. “It’s possible. She could have turned them on purpose, or they could have fought and got bitten by accident. It doesn’t really narrow down a list of suspects, though. Probably male, based on the prior victims, but not necessarily. I don’t assume. And probably in their mid-thirties to late-forties, but again, that’s just based on the earlier patterns. It’s an interesting avenue, Cas, but I don’t know that it will lead anywhere.”

Cas drops onto the bed with a sigh. “You’re probably right. I’m grasping at straws, aren’t I?”

“You’re trying to make sense of a terrible, scary situation,” she says gently. “Listen. I’m going to put in a call to the crime lab myself. I’ve got a wide range of shadowy government agencies I can pretend to work for, and hopefully they’ll take me a bit more seriously than your friends at the sheriff’s station. That shirt you found in the woods is the biggest piece of evidence we have, Cas, and we’re running out of time.”

He doesn’t need to be reminded of that. Glancing over towards the window, Cas can see the moon, bright in the clear night sky. It’s nearly full. With a brief goodnight, he ends the call to Charlie and closes the curtains against the mocking light of the moon.

***

After another day with no new leads, Cas is itching for a drink, or for a fight. He ends up at the only bar in town, huddled on a stool at the far end of the counter. The drink is easy enough to acquire. He lets his eyes rove around the room as he sips slowly at his whiskey, relishing the slight burn in his throat. He recognizes most of the other patrons after three and a half weeks in this town.

Any one of them could be the werewolf. 

Cas orders another drink. The bartender arches an eyebrow, but obliges. Cas observes her for a few minutes, the way she greets every customer by name, pouring their drinks before they even have to ask. Clearly, she knows her patrons well.

So the next time he catches her eye, he flashes his badge, and she puts down the empty glass she’s polishing to come stand across from him, elbows planted on the surface of the bar. “What can I do for you, Agent?”

It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try. “Were you working here the night Ryan Garland died?”

“I was,” she answers steadily. 

Cas drums his fingertips on the bar. “Do you remember anything unusual happening that night? A fight, someone acting strangely?”

She takes a moment to consider before answering. “Not that I can recall.”

“And the crowd.” He gestures to the other patrons. “Similar to this one?”

“I’d say so, yeah.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”

She starts to speak, then stops, a strange look crossing her face. “Well. I didn’t think it was important at the time, but…”

Cas sits up straighter on his stool, the second whiskey forgotten. “What?”

She shrugs. “I found a phone in the bathroom at the end of the night. No big deal, happens all the time. But when I tried to go through to find someone to call, all the contacts and history had been deleted. When I tried to make a call, it said the line had been disconnected.”

“Abandoned, not forgotten,” Cas says under his breath. He sweeps a hand through his hair. “Do you still have the phone?”

She grimaces. “Sorry, no. It didn’t seem like anyone would be coming back for it, so I tossed it.”

Cas bites back the urge to curse. It isn’t her fault. On its own, an abandoned phone is meaningless. But in conjunction with the out of service number Ryan called the night he died, it’s a loudly ringing alarm bell. In all likelihood, the killer was here that night. Possibly right before the murder took place.

He takes a quick look around the dimly lit interior of the bar. “I don’t suppose you have security cameras?”

“Only by the office,” she says apologetically. 

Cas stands and slaps down enough cash to cover his drinks and a hefty tip. “I know it’s difficult, but if you can do your best to make up a list of everyone you saw that night, it would be enormously helpful.”

“I can pull credit card receipts,” she offers, “but it won’t help if they paid cash.”

“Do what you can.” Cas drains the last of the whiskey and slides a card with his phone number on it across the bar. “It might help save a life.”

He isn’t drunk, far from it, but the combination of the alcohol and the possibility of a new lead has excitement thrumming in his veins. It’s still relatively early when he arrives back at his motel room, only just after nine, and he knows there’s no sense trying to sleep now. He sends a quick text to Charlie to update her on what he learned, then paces around the room, trying to burn off some of his excess energy.

His eyes land on the pile of clothing on the armchair, all the things he’d borrowed from Dean while they were trapped by the storm. He’s done his best to avoid looking at them, to avoid thinking about Dean at all. With the full moon bearing down on them, it has been important to focus on the case. 

But now, he gathers the clothes up before he can change his mind and throws on his own coat, heading back out into the night.

He doesn’t stop to think until his hand is already raised to knock on Dean’s door. They didn’t exactly part on the best of terms, but then again, their relationship has always been tempestuous. It’s too late to turn back now, anyway. Dean will surely have heard his truck approaching or seen the headlights cutting into the darkness of the woods.

Cas takes a deep breath and knocks firmly on the door.

It opens to reveal Dean, eyes narrowed in surprise and suspicion. He doesn’t say anything.

Clearing his throat, Cas holds out the bundle of clothing in his hands. “I came to return these.”

Dean’s face relaxes, and he steps back. “Do you want to come in?”

“Thank you.” Cas follows him into the house and shuts the door behind him. “How have you been?”

Reaching out to take the clothes from Cas, Dean shrugs. “Fine, I guess.”

Maybe this was a bad idea. There’s a fire crackling cheerfully in the living room, the TV is paused in the middle of what Cas easily identifies as The Fellowship of the Ring, and Dean is dressed in sweatpants and a grey t-shirt, looking soft and slightly rumpled. Cas shouldn’t have disturbed him.

“I’m sorry,” he says abruptly. “I know you want to be left alone. I should go.”

“No, hey, wait.” Dean reaches out, not touching him, but letting his hand hover in the space between them. “It’s fine. You wanna hang out for a bit?”

Cas hesitates. The little house feels cozy and secure, so much more inviting than his empty, horribly neutral motel room. And the motel room doesn’t have Dean in it. 

“Alright.” One corner of his mouth raises in a half-smile. “But only if you skip back to Strider’s first appearance.”

Dean doesn’t smile, but his eyes brighten as he nods solemnly. “Deal.”

Cas takes off his coat and leaves it on the back of a chair in the kitchen. Dean passes him a beer, they settle in front of the TV, and they start the movie again. 

It’s quite a while later before Dean speaks again. “Making any progress with your case?”

That, Cas thinks, is an olive branch, tentatively extended. Just like his coming here was. “A bit,” he answers. “Not enough to resolve anything, though.”

“And the full moon is tomorrow night.” Of course, Dean doesn’t need to check a calendar to know that. It’s as important to him as it is to Cas. Maybe even more so. “I don’t know what I can do, Cas. But if there is anything, if I can help--”

Cas turns to look at him, his profile illuminated by the glow of the fire. “Thank you. I’m not even sure what I can do at this point, but thank you.”

There’s an apology in there somewhere, and Dean nods in acknowledgment of it. They exchanged harsh words the last time they spoke, but they’ve both had time to cool down since then. 

They turn back to the TV, offering occasional commentary but otherwise sitting in companionable quiet. Gradually, the tension that has been building in Cas’ body over the past few days begins to recede, the fire and the familiar film combining to usher him into a more relaxed state. He should make his excuses, head back to the motel, try to get a good night’s sleep, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he drifts off to sleep exactly where is, curled on his side on the couch in Dean Winchester’s living room, warmed by the fire and by Dean’s quiet presence in the armchair only a few feet away.

He doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes screaming.

It’s the nightmare, the same one that has plagued his sleep for the past four years. Heart racing, he tries to scramble to his feet, forgetting about his weakened ankle. He stumbles, and nearly goes crashing to the ground before a pair of strong arms catch him around the waist. In the dark, his surroundings are unfamiliar, and he lashes out with fists and feet, trying to fend off his attacker.

“Cas. Cas!” He knows that voice. “Hey. Take it easy.”

Trembling, Cas subsides, pressing his eyes tightly closed before opening them to see Dean’s concerned face only a few inches away from his own. “Just breathe,” Dean instructs. “Take it slow. It’s alright.”

Reaching under his shirt, Cas grabs his rosary and pulls it out, fingers already sliding across the smooth surface of the beads, warm from contact with his skin. He closes his eyes again as he recites the familiar words and his heart rate gradually settles. 

When he’s done, it’s marginally easier to breathe. He exhales shakily and raises his head to meet Dean’s eyes. Instead of the horror or dismay he expects to find there, he sees only a terrible compassion.

“You fell asleep before the last fight,” Dean explains quietly. “You looked so peaceful, and it was pretty late, so I figured I’d let you sleep. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Cas turns his face away. “I should be apologizing. I’m sorry I woke you.” 

“It’s fine.” Dean shifts, drawing Cas’ attention to the fact that he’s crouched on the ground in front of the couch and also the fact that he isn’t wearing a shirt. “Do you-- do you want to talk about it?”

Cas’ first instinct is to say no. To brush it off, to say it’s a side effect of the job, which wouldn’t be entirely untrue. Only Charlie knows the full extent of what he sees in his dreams. He’s never told anyone else. But Dean is looking at him, eyes steady even in the dimness of the room, the smouldering fire providing only the barest hint of light. It’s oddly reminiscent of another night, much like this, when Dean shared his story and his suffering.

It must have taken a great deal of courage to do so. Cas thinks he owes it to both of them to do the same.

Shuffling back, he curls into the arm of the couch, freeing up space for Dean beside him. Dean takes the hint, settling himself at the other end and leaving a respectable distance between them. He doesn’t say anything, but Cas feels the patient weight of his gaze, letting him start on his own terms.

Clearing his throat, Cas says, “Do you remember, when we were at the church, that I told you I used to be a priest?”

“It’s not the kind of thing you easily forget.”

“Right. Well.” Cas pauses. “My family was always religious. But not in a stern way. In a loving, joyful way. The way it should be. Maybe that’s why I always wanted to join the church. I wanted to belong to something that could bring people together like that. My parents were supportive, made sure it wasn’t just a whim, but when they could see I was determined, they encouraged me completely.”

He breaks off, remembering how proud his father had been, telling all their friends that his youngest son was going to join the priesthood. “I loved it,” he says softly. “I was assigned a position at a small church only a few hours away from where I grew up. The congregation wasn’t large, but it was faithful, and I enjoyed getting to know them. I felt helpful, and I felt needed, and I felt I was doing God’s work.”

He’d been so young then. So naive. 

“For years, my life was simple. I was happy.” Cas closes his eyes, remembering the smell of the candles in the air, the sound of the choir singing, all the familiar rituals that gave shape to his days.

“And then what?” Dean asks after a respectful pause.

Cas lets out a slow breath. “It was an ordinary day. I had heard confessions in the morning, and one of the other priests, Father Lucca, was going to take over my duties in the afternoon so I could go home and visit my family. My sister, Anna, was in town from Chicago, and I hadn’t seen her in quite some time.”

His hand rests lightly on the rosary around his neck. He swallows roughly, the images already crowding his brain, too awful to put into words.

“Hey.” Dean slides a bit closer, still not touching, but steadying regardless. “It’s okay. You can stop.”

“No.” Cas shakes his head. “I need to--” he grips the side of the couch to ground himself. “I need to finish this.”

It takes another moment, but he finds his voice again. “All their cars were there, so I knew I was the last one to arrive. I opened the door, expecting to be greeted by smiles and teasing. But what I found was something more horrible than I could ever have imagined.”

He remembers that first, confused step into the house. The feeling that somehow, it was all some sort of trick. The slick spill of blood in the entryway, and one outstretched hand, fingers curled up towards the sky. 

“They were all dead.” He bites his lip, clutching the rosary more tightly now. “Anna, Gabriel, and Balthazar. My mother. There was so much blood.”

Dean makes a small noise of distress, eyes fixed on Cas’ face.

“I found my father in the kitchen. He was sitting at the table, and there was a bloody knife in front of him.” Cas shudders at the memory. “But it wasn’t my father. He looked up at me, and his eyes were black.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, Dean says, “A demon?”

“Yes. I could barely believe what I was seeing, but I knew it with a sick certainty. A demon had possessed my father, and killed the rest of my family. It looked at me through my father’s eyes and it laughed.” Cas closes his eyes, tilting his head back onto the arm of the couch. “My father had the most wonderful laugh, warm and booming and completely infectious. This wasn’t it.”

“How did you escape?” Dean asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“It came at me with the knife. I dodged, panicking, but it caught me along my side. I got the table between us, and then I did the thing I did best: I prayed.”

“An exorcism?”

“Exactly.” Cas shakes his head. “It was surprised, to say the least. I suppose it wasn’t expecting to be met with someone who had a Latin exorcism memorized. It was awful to watch, the way it struggled for control of my father’s body. But I kept going. I thought, if I could just save him--”

He lifts a hand to his face and is surprised when it comes away wet. He didn’t even realize he’d been crying. “It wouldn’t give me the satisfaction, though. I was almost at the end. It was weakening, black smoke spilling from my father’s mouth. And then, with the last of its energy, it laughed again, and stabbed my father in the heart.”

His teeth are chattering. Carefully, Dean reaches out and adjusts the blanket over his shoulders, not allowing his hands to linger. “I finished the exorcism. The demon was banished, but it was too late. My father looked at me one last time, through his own eyes, and died in my arms.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean murmurs. “God, I can’t even imagine.”

“I called the police, and I barely even remember what happened after that. The case was treated as a murder suicide, and I didn’t tell them anything different. No one would have believed me. The day after the funerals, I left the priesthood.” He remembers the sadness on Father Lucca’s face, the desperate attempts to convince him to change his mind. “I couldn’t serve a god who let things like that happen. I lost everything that day: my family, my faith, my job, my entire perspective on the world.”

“What did you do after that?”

Cas manages a watery laugh. “What any young man experiencing a crisis of faith does, I suppose. I lost myself in alcohol and reckless living and anything that could take my mind off what I had lost. I travelled across the country and to different parts of the world. I plunged headlong into a life of indulgence and decadence that would have shocked my former brotherhood. For a whole year, I drowned out the pain with anything and everything that I could. And then Charlie found me.”

“Who’s Charlie?” Dean asks. 

“At the time, I thought she was a young woman trying to flirt with me.” Cas shakes his head. “As it turned out, she had heard about what happened to my family, and recognized the signs of a demonic possession.”

“She’s another hunter?”

“Not exactly. Have you ever heard of the Women of Letters?”

Dean shakes his head.

“They’re an organization dedicated to the fight against supernatural beings, but from a more academic perspective than hunters. They collect information, objects, anything with a connection to the weird. Charlie is the head of the American chapter.”

Letting out a low whistle, Dean says, “So you were a research subject?”

“Something like that.” Cas wipes away the last remaining tears from his face. “But we became friends. For the first time, I had someone who understood what I had gone through. She knew about demons, so I didn’t have to hide that part of the story. And when I finished telling her everything, she asked me if I wanted to learn to fight back against the things that murdered my family, and other things like them.”

“So you became a hunter.”

“So I became a hunter.” Cas nods. “The headquarters of the Women of Letters, or the bunker, as we call it, is attached to a ramshackle bar called the Roadhouse. It’s run by a woman named Ellen Harvelle, and it’s a haven for hunters. They work together, you see, two sides of the same coin. It’s where I stay when I’m not on the road.”

Dean nods, a slight frown on his face. “And the nightmare?”

“I’m back in that house,” Cas says quietly, “over and over again. Every time I leave, I end up there again, until I wake up.”

Dean looks like he’s about to say something else, then stops, his eyes drawn to the rosary Cas continues to hold in his grip. Slowly, he reaches out to touch it. “You kept this, though?”

“I did.” Cas looks down at it, the reassuring pattern on it. “I don’t pray anymore, but I use it to remember my family instead.” He slips it over his neck and holds it out so Dean can see. “Instead of the prayers, I say their names.”

Their faces are so close together, Dean leaning over so he can examine the string of beads in Cas’ hands. He looks up, and in Dean’s eyes he sees the reflection of his own sadness, his own loneliness. Dean swallows, the movement of his throat visible at this distance, and without thinking, Cas reaches out.

He surges forward, and Dean pulls back.

Stung, Cas lets himself fall back against the side of the couch, breath coming quickly. He looks away, but a moment later, a warm, rough hand presses itself to his cheek, gently turning his face.

“Not like this,” Dean says quietly. “You’re upset, Cas, and I could never--”

He’s right, of course. Cas closes his eyes. “No,” he agrees. “Not like this.”

“Maybe,” Dean starts, then pauses. “Maybe after this is all done--”

“Yeah.” Cas nods, his face still cradled against Dean’s hand. It’s been so long since he was touched with such gentleness, such tenderness. 

Dean makes a small sound and his thumb rubs lightly over Cas’ cheekbone in a soft caress. “Can I just-- can I just hold you?”

Cas is scrambling across the couch and into his arms before the words are even fully out of his mouth. Dean’s bare skin is warm against him, smooth and inviting. Cas presses his face into the crook of Dean’s shoulders and those gorgeously muscled arms close around him, holding him tight. 

It’s a long while before they disentangle themselves. “Stay,” Dean says, and Cas nods. By mutual, unspoken agreement, they keep to seperate beds. But just knowing that Dean is there, just across the hall, brings Cas a feeling of security he hasn’t experienced in years, and as soon as his head hits the pillow, he falls into a dreamless sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

In the morning, Cas makes them toast, and he doesn’t burn it.

Dean pronounces it perfect, and something flutters in Cas’ chest. He pushes it down, contenting himself with a small smile in response to Dean’s praise. They eat in silence, but with their chairs pushed close together so Cas can feel the warmth of Dean’s body along his side. He stretches his cup of coffee as long as he can before rising to his feet, looking down at Dean with a lump in his throat.

“I have to go.”

Dean tips his head up to meet Cas’ eyes. “I know.” He pauses, eyes searching. “I’m coming with you.”

“What?” Cas frowns down at him. “You can’t just walk into the sheriff’s station with me and be brought in on the investigation.”

“Why not? You do it all the time. You just have a fake badge with you when you do.”

Cas opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it, scowling. Dean’s eyes gleam with triumph and he stands, clapping Cas on the back. “You were right,” he says. “It is personal. For a number of reasons.”

It’s difficult to argue with that, and Cas can’t deny that he would welcome Dean’s presence today of all days. Within fifteen minutes, they’re headed into town.

Nancy’s eyes widen with surprise as Dean follows Cas into the sheriff’s station, but her warm smile never wavers. “Hi, Mr. Winchester,” she says. “Good to see you.”

Dean gives her an awkward wave, eyes flicking to meet Cas’ as though checking it’s the appropriate reaction. Cas gives him a supportive nod and leads him towards Donna’s office. Both Kevin and Garth greet them as they pass, and though they also give Dean curious glances, they don’t question his presence.

“See?” Dean whispers as Cas knocks on Donna’s office door. “Told you it would work.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Cas is distracted by Donna opening the door and ushering them inside. “Morning, Agent,” she says. “Oh, you brought a friend!”

“It’s nice to see you, Sheriff.” Dean holds out a hand, but Donna takes it in both of hers and pulls him in for a hug, beaming. Dean is stiff in her arms at first, but he gradually relaxes, a small smile hovering on his lips. 

“I believe Mr. Winchester may be of some assistance to us,” Cas says. “Seeing as the last death did occur near his property, and it’s where we found our best piece of evidence.”

Donna narrows her eyes at him, clearly not fooled by this blatant lie, but then shrugs. “I’ll take all the help we can get.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Cas sits in front of her desk while Dean wanders over to examine the map she has pinned to the office wall. “I had an interesting conversation with Morgan, the bartender at The Twisted Pine, last night. She told me she found a phone abandoned in the bathroom on the night of the murder, with no contacts saved in it, and that when she tried to place a call, it was disconnected.”

Donna leans across her desk, eyes lighting up. “You think it’s the phone Ryan called as he was leaving his house?”

“I do.” Cas pulls out his own phone and places it on the desk between them. “I’m expecting a list of as many people as she can remember being there that night. It will be a long list, but still shorter than our current list of suspects, which is pretty much everyone.”

“Right.” Donna nods. “When did you say you were getting this list?”

Cas’ phone chimes, and he snatches it off the desk. “Right about now.” The message from Morgan is brief, an apology for not being able to be of more help followed by a photograph of a handwritten list of names. Cas counts them quickly, disappointed at how few he recognizes.

“Fourteen names.” Dean is leaning over his shoulder, examining the list. “Now what?”

Donna makes an impatient gesture and reaches for the phone. “We cross-check all their criminal records.” She types away furiously, both Dean and Cas waiting with bated breath as she scans the department’s databases. After a few minutes, she blows her hair out of her face and turns to them with a grimace. “Nothing. All of them are clean.”

“So, what? We just follow them all day and wait for one of them to do something that sets off alarm bells?” Dean asks.

Cas and Donna exchange glances. She purses her lips, rueful. “There are too many of them for us to follow, even with the help of Deputies Tran and Fitzgerald. We’re better off narrowing down our list of suspects first.”

“I leave that to the two of you.” Cas looks at Dean, who gives a small nod. “You know these people much better than I do.”

“Alright, Sheriff, let’s take a look.” Dean crosses the room to join Donna on her side of the desk, and only minutes later, they present Cas with a much shorter list of names. 

“So we start here.” Cas snaps a picture of the list and saves it to his phone. “We work our way through these suspects first. Observe at first, engage if given reason to. Check in with each other constantly. It’s unlikely they’ll take any action before nightfall, but if you see anything suspicious, report to the others immediately. Clear?”

Both Dean and Donna nod. “I’ll get Kevin and Garth out there right away,” Donna promises. “Everyone, exchange contact information. You be careful, now, boys.”

She sweeps out of the office, leaving Dean and Cas staring at each other in her wake.

“Well.” Dean clears his throat and attempts a crooked smile, but his eyes are worried. “Saves me the embarrassment of having to ask for your number, I guess.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Cas laughs. “How convenient.”

He takes a minute to drink in the sight of Dean, out of his self-imposed exile and standing ready to chase down a monster at his side. Cas reaches back and withdraws his silver knife, ready to hand it over to Dean, then checks himself. The handle is wrapped in leather and shouldn’t harm Dean, but having silver that close to him-- 

Dean solves his dilemma by reaching out for it, holding it carefully. “It’s fine,” he assures Cas. “So. Any advice?”

Cas just shakes his head. “Don’t die.” But he softens the harsh words by stepping closer and laying one hand against the side of Dean’s face, feeling the surprising softness of his beard tickling his palm. “We have unfinished business.”

Dean turns his face into the touch and closes his eyes. When he opens them, they’re filled with such longing that Cas nearly takes a step back. They hold the stare a moment longer, then Dean swallows, breaking the spell. 

With one last look over his shoulder, he’s out the door. 

Cas takes a minute to send a series of texts to Charlie, updating her on the situation, and then he follows. The first name on his list is one unknown to him: Andre Thompson, who works at the gas station. Easy enough. Cas could stand to fill his tank anyway.

***

Andre Thompson is a pleasant, placid man in his late thirties or early forties. Cas strikes up an easy conversation about the weather as he pays for his gas, probably the same conversation Andre has had with every customer he’s served in the past week since the snowstorm hit. He shows no sign of impatience or abruptness or any hint that today is anything other than an ordinary day. When Cas asks about his plans after finishing his shift, he smiles and announces that his wife is making roast beef for dinner, and if he, Agent Draper, has nothing to do, he would be more than welcome to join them.

It would be an incredibly bold move, that invitation, if Andre were the killer. Cas doesn’t get the impression he’s that clever. But he stays parked at the gas station for over an hour, observing Andre through the store windows, until he’s certain. This isn’t the person he’s looking for.

None of the others are having much luck either. Kevin reports that Roger, who was at the bar for about an hour before returning to the motel long before the time of Ryan’s death, has essentially trapped him into a conversation about all his ideas for better use of the sheriff’s resources. After concluding that Theo’s uncle, the mayor, is far too obsessed with his own importance to have killed anyone, Dean has gone back to his own property to do a sweep of the surrounding woods. Donna hasn’t even been able to locate her designated suspect yet. 

The day passes in rising frustration, and by late afternoon, Cas finds himself at the diner, in a booth for once rather than at the counter. It’s easier to keep an eye on Elliott, a busboy here, from the middle of the room. 

“Hey.” Dean slides into the booth across from him, running a hand through his hair. “Any luck?”

“Elliott does seem rather clumsy.” It’s the reason Cas has stayed this long. “Nerves, maybe?”

Dean turns to look at him, frowning. “He’s about the same age as Ryan. Friendship gone sour?”

Cas shrugs. “Maybe.”

Benny appears at their booth, coffee pot in hand. “Either of you want to tell me why you’re sitting here staring at one of my employees like you’re about to haul him away in cuffs?” 

Dean looks up and gives him a lopsided smile. There’s fondness in his eyes, which makes Cas’ heart give a painful lurch in his chest. “We might,” Dean answers.

Pursing his lips, Benny looks over at Cas. “How’d you drag him out of the house and into your investigation, anyway?”

Cas crosses his arms over his chest. “Dean’s decisions are his own.”

“Christ,” Dean mutters under his breath. “Cool it, both of you. Benny. You know what today is?”

The tension leaves Benny’s shoulders as he looks back at Dean. “Yeah, brother. I do.”

“Then you know why I can’t just sit at home.”

With a nod, Benny leans in closer so they won’t be overheard. “Sure. But Elliott? You don’t seriously think--”

“We don’t know what to think.” Cas spreads his hands across the table. “He is acting rather jumpy.”

At that, Benny laughs. “Nah. That’s just him. Poor kid has a hard time keeping a job anywhere, he’s so shy. But he works hard, and he deserves a chance.” 

“You sure, Benny?” Dean asks. “This isn’t the time to be taking risks.”

“I’m sure.” Something softens in Benny’s eyes as he looks at Dean, but there’s wistfulness there too. “Trust me.”

Dean looks at Cas and shrugs. “Very well,” Cas says. “We’ll take your word for it.”

“I’m here all night,” Benny says, suddenly grim. “I’ll keep an eye out for anything strange.”

Cas nods his thanks, and Benny returns behind the counter. Cas watches him go, then turns to look at Dean, afraid of what he might see on his face. 

Dean isn’t even looking at Benny. He’s watching Cas, eyes serious. 

“What?” Cas is hit with a sudden wave of self-consciousness. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Just a tiny bit of jealousy.” Dean’s lips twitch with amusement. “Can’t say I’ve ever experienced a moment like that before. It was as flattering as it was ridiculous.”

Cas rubs at the back of his neck, looking away. “I just--”

“Hey.” Dean reaches out, not touching Cas’ hand but leaving his own close to it on the surface of the table. “It hasn’t been like that between me and Benny for years. I swear. But I do still trust him. And he knows enough about the things that go bump in the night to have a good radar. If he says Elliott isn’t our guy, then I believe him.”

“Then who is?” Cas looks around the diner, all the people smiling and talking and eating. Any one of them could be a killer in disguise. “How the hell are we supposed to figure this out before it’s too late?”

“I don’t know.” Dean looks as troubled as Cas feels. “That’s the thing about small towns, isn’t it? Everyone’s connected in some way, and everyone’s hiding something. Some things are bigger than others, but they’re all there. Whether it’s an affair, or a gambling problem, a childhood crush gone on way too long, or garden-variety daddy issues like me, we’ve all got something to hide.”

Dean continues talking, but Cas doesn’t hear a word he’s saying. He’s too busy repeating those earlier words, letting them circle in his head until, with cold certainty chilling him to the bone, the world snaps back into focus.

“Cas?” Across the table, Dean is frowning at him. “You listening?”

“Daddy issues,” Cas repeats. He’s been so wrong. So dangerously wrong. “Dean. I know who it is.”

“What?” Dean leans across the table, eyes alight. “Who?”

Cas closes his eyes. “Tom Garland.”

There’s a terrible pause as Dean puts the pieces together, and Cas opens his eyes in time to see the horror in Dean’s, the same horror he feels. “No,” Dean says. “No, it can’t be. His own kid?”

“I know.” Cas pushes his hair away from his face with a trembling hand. “But it all makes sense.” He pulls out his phone and opens the photo of the list. “He was at the bar that night. He’s been over at Ryan and Theo’s apartment, packing up his things. He took Ryan’s computer and wiped it. Why would he wipe it if he wasn’t afraid of what someone might find?”

“And the phone?”

Cas shakes his head. “I don’t know.” It doesn’t add up perfectly, not yet, but he knows he’s right. He hasn’t been a hunter long, but his instincts are sound. “Theo said Tom was the first one to take them to Caribou when they turned twenty-one. That was just over two years ago. Right around the time of the other killings.”

“You think that was him too?”

“Maybe.” Cas hesitates. “Or that’s when he was bitten.”

“Fuck.” Dean passes a hand over his pale face. “We crossed him off the list without a second thought. It would never even occur to me that--”

“I know.” Cas swallows roughly. “I thought, if anyone, it was Camille. She was the one who left town, and I thought it was a sign of her guilt.”

“So now what?” Dean asks.

“Now,” Cas says, hand drifting to the gun at his waist, “we go pay Tom Garland a little visit.”

They call Donna on the way, but she isn’t answering her phone. Cas leaves her a terse message, most of his attention focused on driving. It’s already getting dark, and they don’t even know if Tom will be at home. 

He lives in a small bungalow not far from the town centre. There’s no car in the driveway, and there are no lights on in the house. Cas parks the truck across the street and gestures to Dean to follow him, keeping alert for signs of movement as they approach. 

There are too many houses nearby for Cas’ comfort. Too many people who could be witnesses, or worse, victims. The quicker they get this done, the better. Sliding up to the front door, he immediately set to work picking the lock.

Dean keeps his eyes turned to the street as Cas works without even being asked to do so. For a first-timer, he’s taking this surprisingly well. The lock gives way with a faint click, and Cas slips inside, Dean following behind. 

The house is dark, but Cas’ eyes adjust to the gloom as he makes his way down the hall. The floor creaks under his feet despite his efforts, and he freezes, throwing up his arm to signal Dean to stop. After a tense pause, they continue. 

“I don’t think anyone’s here,” Cas whispers. 

“That’s not a good thing.” Dean looks around, frowning. The living room is neat. Too neat. “If he isn’t here, then where is he?”

Cas grimaces and doesn’t reply. Entering the kitchen, they find a few more signs of life: empty mugs in the sink, a crumpled pizza box by the back door. Cas opens the fridge, rummaging past the cans of beer. At the very back of the fridge is a plastic bag. Pulling it out, Cas unwraps it carefully, Dean watching with wide eyes.

“Is that--”

“An animal heart.” Cas stares down at it. “Cow, I think.”

Dean shudders. “So here’s his dinner. But where is the big bad wolf?”

“I don’t know.” Cas re-wraps the bundle and returns it to the fridge. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never actually hunted a werewolf before. But all the lore agrees that once they taste human hearts, there’s no going back. I don’t think Tom will be satisfied with that.” He nods towards the bundle in the fridge. “Which means he’ll go after someone else.”

“But who?” Dean frowns. “I still don’t understand why he killed his own son. Especially if he knew about eating animal hearts. He was obviously trying to control it.”

Cas looks around, the quiet little house and the feeling of loneliness that pervades the space. “I think it was an accident,” he says. “Ryan was at the bank earlier that day, looking to take out a loan. He was leaving. I think they fought, and Tom couldn’t control himself.”

He looks over and meets Dean’s eyes. “At least, that’s what I want to believe. Anything else--”

“Anything else is just too terrible.” Dean nods. “Okay. Then how else do we catch him?”

There’s something just beyond the reach of Cas’ memory. Some conversation with Charlie after another werewolf hunt. “Territory,” he says. “That’s it. Werewolves are territorial.”

It only takes a second for Dean to catch on. “So he’ll go back to the same place he killed last time?”

Cas is already halfway out the door. “Good thing you know your way around those woods.”

They find Tom’s truck parked halfway between the main road and the clearing where Dean’s house stands. Cas pulls up behind it, heart pounding. He and Dean circle around, but it’s clear Tom is already gone. 

“Should we split up?” Dean asks, eyes on the thick clusters of trees rather than on Cas’ face. “Cover more ground?”

“No.” Cas shakes his head. “We stay together.”

Dean nods. “Good.” He points his phone down at the ground, illuminating a faint trail of footsteps leading into the woods. “And I know which way to go.”

They enter the forest in silence. Their breath is visible in the crisp air, small branches snapping under their feet as they follow the trail Tom left behind. Cas lets Dean go ahead of him, acknowledging his greater familiarity with the area. After about fifteen minutes, Dean stops, and Cas does the same. 

“Listen.” Dean’s voice is pitched low.

Cas waits. At first, he only hears the rustling of pine needles, but then, not too far ahead of them, a steady cracking sound.

Dean looks back over his shoulder, his teeth gleaming in the bright light of the moon as he grins. “Come on.”

Before Cas can protest, he’s bounding away through the trees.

“Fuck,” Cas mutters under his breath, then takes off in pursuit. His ankle twinges slightly, but it holds him up. 

If he hasn’t completely lost his sense of direction among the trees, Dean is driving Tom towards his house. They’ll have a better shot out in the open. Cas can hear them both, crashing through the undergrowth, any attempt at stealth now abandoned. 

The trees are thinning around him. Ahead, he can just make out the roof of Dean’s house. He emerges from the trees to find Dean standing stock-still, breathing heavily as he stares across the few feet separating him from Tom. 

There’s a yellow glint to Tom’s eyes as they move between Dean and Cas. “So. You figured it out, did you?” He shifts his weight, and Cas tenses, waiting for him to spring forward in attack.

“Not all of it.” Cas moves closer, keeping his eyes fixed on Tom. “What I still don’t understand is why. Why did you kill your own son?”

“I didn’t mean to.” Tom reaches up and passes a hand over his face. “It was an accident.”

“Was it because you were scared he was leaving town? Leaving you?” He needs to get a better angle. The silver has to pierce Tom’s heart in order to kill him. For now, keeping him talking is the best distraction they have. “Did he ask you for money? Was that what he called you about that night?”

“He wanted me to co-sign his loan,” Tom says. He shakes his head, a sharp, violent gesture. “I told him no. I didn’t want him to leave.”

“Even if it’s what he wanted?” Dean asks. His hand, Cas can see, is slowly withdrawing the silver knife from its hiding place. Cas catches his eyes and gives a barely visible shake of his head. 

“Everybody leaves me!” Tom snaps. His agitation is showing as his hands clench and unclench at his side. “First Camille. And she took Ryan with her. Then Louise. She left me with this--” he points up at the moon, bright and unflinching above them. “This curse. Told me we would be together forever, and then she disappeared.”

“Cry me a fucking river,” Dean says. His eyes are as cold and hard as the moon. “People leave all the time. The rest of us deal with it. That’s a crappy excuse. You’re a monster, Tom.”

Cas is almost in line for the perfect shot. His gun is in hand, whipping it towards his front, when Tom snarls and launches himself at Dean with inhuman speed.

They’re a blur of movement, both grappling for hold as they slide in the snow. Cas can’t risk a shot, not with them so close together. 

He hears Dean hiss in pain and moves forward without thinking. Distracted, Tom growls at him, his eyes turned completely yellow. He swipes at Cas, who stumbles back from the claws that have grown from his fingertips, his ankle twisting below him and bringing him crashing to the ground.

Dean takes advantage of Tom’s momentary distraction and swings wildly with the knife. It catches Tom across the face and he yelps in pain, but it isn’t enough to slow him down. He lashes out with his fist, catching Dean across the jaw and sending him stumbling back. 

“You should have stayed out of this, Winchester.” Tom’s voice is muffled, made strange by the effects of the full moon. “I had no fight with you.”

“Yeah?” Breathing heavily, Dean moves lightning-fast, whipping a handful of snow at Tom’s face. “Well I’ve got one with you.”

Tom snarls and claws frantically at his face, trying to clear his vision. Dean lunges forward, knife in hand, but one of Tom’s hands catches its swing and knocks it off course. The knife ends up buried in his shoulder rather than in his heart.

With a roar of pain, Tom pushes Dean out of his way. He crashes to the ground, and his eyes meet Cas’. Cas fumbles with the gun, but his fingers are cold, and he can’t get a clean shot.

That hesitation gives Tom enough time to follow the path of Dean’s gaze and whirl back to face Cas. His speed is incredible. Cas fires, but Tom has already moved out of the path of the bullet. Catching Cas by the collar of his coat, he lifts him to his feet, tearing the gun from his grasp and tossing it aside.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cas can see Dean pulling himself towards it. But it’s too far away, and he’s moving too slowly.

“Nice of both of you to show up, actually.” This close, Tom’s grin is terrifying. “One to eat, and one to turn. The question is, which will be which?”

Cas struggles, but Tom’s grip is too tight. He clamps his hand around Cas’ forearm and raises it towards his mouth. His elongated teeth are bared, and Cas twists in his hold, desperately trying to pull away.

The sound of a gunshot cuts through the night.

Tom yelps, and his hold on Cas loosens just enough for him to slip free. Turning, Cas sees that Dean is still far out of reach of his gun. Then where did--

“Hands in the air, Mr. Garland.” Donna steps forward, illuminated by the lights from her truck. “I won’t miss again.”

Tom bares his teeth and snarls, advancing on Cas again. Donna aims and fires, the bullet lodging in his shoulder, but he barely slows.

“Donna!” Dean shouts, gesturing frantically to the ground between them. Cas’ attention is caught by the movement, and then Tom is on him again, his claws raking across Cas’ chest and slicing open the fabric of his coat.

A third shot rings out, and Tom stiffens. Cas stumbles back, panting, as the yellow begins to fade from Tom’s eyes. He raises one hand and swipes at Cas, but the claws are rapidly receding. 

Over his shoulder, Cas can see Donna holding his gun, still aimed perfectly at Tom’s back.

Tom takes two steps, and then his knees give out. He crashes to the ground, his breathing shallow. Cas drops down beside him, and just before the light behind his eyes goes dim, he sees something like relief. 

Gasping, Dean skids to a halt beside them. “Is he--”

“Dead.” Cas looks up and nods. Then his eyes drift to Donna, who’s still standing frozen in place. “Impeccable timing, Sheriff. I’m glad you got my message.”

“Message?” Donna blinks, finally lowering the gun. “No. I got the call from the crime lab. They matched the blood on the shirt to Tom’s DNA, and I followed his truck out this way on the traffic cams.”

Cas opens his mouth to reply, then closes it. It doesn’t matter. It’s done. He pulls himself to his feet and gently takes the gun from Donna’s hand. “Thank you.”

“Uh-huh.” She’s still staring at Tom’s crumpled body. “You going to tell me what just happened here, Agent?”

Cas winces. He’d really rather not, but she deserves the truth. Especially after saving them. “He was a werewolf. My gun is loaded with silver bullets. That’s why yours didn’t work.”

She turns to him, eyes wide. “So all that mumbo jumbo about the full moon--”

“True,” Cas says firmly. “Just. A different kind of truth.”

“A different kind of truth,” Donna repeats. “Right. Just tell me one thing, Agent: is this it? Is it over now?”

Cas looks at Dean, who’s looking down at Tom’s body with a mixture of rage and pity on his face. It isn’t his secret to tell. If Dean wants to tell Donna someday, that will be his choice. “Not exactly,” Cas says. “I don’t think Sydnam or its citizens are in danger any longer. But Tom was bitten a few years back by a woman named Louise Newsome, the one who killed three men in Caribou. She’s still unaccounted for.”

Donna nods, tucking a piece of hair torn loose by the wind back behind her ear. “Okay.” She takes a deep breath, then reaches for her radio. “Dean, I think it’s better if you were less involved. You called to report a trespasser, and when I arrived and confronted Mr. Garland, he confessed to Ryan’s murder. He attacked Agent Draper, and I had no choice but to stop him.”

As far as cover stories go, it isn’t the worst Cas has heard. “Thank you,” he says again. 

Donna turns away, talking into her radio. Cas takes advantage of her distraction to stumble over to Dean. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Dean looks up and smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You?”

Cas shrugs. “Case is closed. There’s that.”

“Right.” Dean starts to say something else, but then he stops, head tilted up towards the sky. “It’s the full moon. I have to--”

“I know.” Cas reaches out and places a hand on his cheek. It’s cold under his touch. “I understand.”

Dean swallows roughly, holding Cas’ gaze. “You’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be okay.” Cas manages a small smile. “Go.”

With one last look over his shoulder, Dean makes his way into the trees and is soon lost to sight.

“I thought it would be best if Mr. Winchester weren’t here when back-up arrives,” Cas explains as Donna finishes her call. “Too many questions.”

She nods. “There’s going to be enough of those as it is. But why do I get the feeling you’re more than ready to handle them, Agent?”

Cas reaches out and pats her shoulder. “Just follow my lead. I’ve dealt with this before.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” she mutters.

They can hear the sirens approaching in the distance. There will be questions, and lies to answer them. Paperwork will be filed, and the town will be shocked. It will take them a long time to recover, but they’ll be alright eventually. They’re made of strong stuff here, Cas thinks, looking over at Donna. 

A flash of movement at the edge of the trees catches his attention. He narrows his eyes, and there, just barely visible, he can make out the shadowy form of a wolf.


	16. Chapter 16

Cas sleeps late the next morning, the satisfied slumber of a solved case and an exhausted body. He’d called Charlie to make his report on the drive back to the motel the night before, and after listening intently to his story, she’d said, “I’m proud of you, Cas.” 

He’s rather proud of himself as well. Of all of them. 

Though Charlie told him to come home, Cas isn’t ready to leave Sydnam quite yet. There are still a few loose ends that need to be tied up. He breaks the news to Roger first, sees the terrible blankness in his eyes when he tells him it was Tom all along. Roger presses a hand to his chest, looks away for a moment, then holds it out to Cas. “Thank you,” is all he says. 

Theo weeps, and Cas doesn’t think twice before gathering the younger man in his arms and letting him cry into his shoulder. He leaves his card, and Theo takes it with trembling hands. “Promise me you’ll call if you need anything,” Cas says, and Theo promises.

Donna will call Camille when she gets back from Florida. Better to hear the truth from someone who knows her. The rest of the town will learn the story in time, but not the whole story. Even Cas still doesn’t know every tiny piece-- why Tom had a secret phone, why Ryan had the number for it. But it’s done. It’s time for them to move forward.

After leaving Theo’s apartment, Cas heads out of town. He could keep going, start the long trip back to the Roadhouse, let Ellen fuss over him after his long absence. It would be easier.

Easy isn’t good enough. 

He turns down the road that leads to Dean’s house. It looks peaceful now, no trace of the violence that erupted here the night before. Dean’s truck isn’t in the driveway. 

Cas frowns, slowing his own vehicle. He thought it had been clear that matters between them weren’t finished. He had let Dean go last night because he needed to transform and only because of that. Has Dean changed his mind? Is he running from Cas now?

The answer dawns on Cas like a bolt of lightning, and he revs his truck’s engine, speeding back towards the main road. He knows where Dean is.

He’s never approached the church from this direction. There’s no sign to announce it, and it seems to appear suddenly, a stone and wood structure looming out of the trees as though it has always belonged there. Sure enough, Dean’s truck has cut tracks into the accumulated snow around the building. 

Cas steps down from the cab, taking a minute to check his reflection in the mirror. He takes a deep breath, the chill air filling his lungs with freshness, and then gently pushes open the door to the church.

Dean is in the first row of pews, his back to Cas. He doesn’t turn, though surely he heard the door opening. Cas walks towards him, but instead of taking the pew across the aisle like he did last time, he slides right beside Dean, their legs almost touching.

“You found me.” Dean turns his head to the side, eyes warm and welcoming. “I hoped you would.”

“I went to your house first,” Cas admits. “But I figured it out after that.”

They sit in silence, staring up at the image of Saint Christopher with his animal head. The quiet is broken only by an occasional creaking as the wind whistles through a damaged part of the walls. Eventually, Dean sighs, turning to face Cas once again. “Is this always how it feels, afterwards?”

Cas hesitates. “Not always. Sometimes it’s simpler. This case--” he breaks off, shaking his head. “I’ll remember this one for a long time.”

He studies Dean’s face carefully, the lines around his eyes and the shadows behind them. He remembers the way Dean had looked at Tom the night before, the scorn and fury of it. Now, Dean just looks empty.

“I thought what my dad did, leaving Sam and I behind, was one of the worst things a parent could do to their kids.” Dean gives a bitter laugh. “I was so wrong.”

“It isn’t a competition.” Cas’ throat is tight. “Your pain isn’t lessened because someone else suffered as well.”

“I know.” Dean closes his eyes and tips his head back, the long line of his throat on display. It makes him look vulnerable. “All night, I ran through the woods. Longer than I usually do. I went miles out of my usual territory.” He opens his eyes and looks at Cas. “Looking for my father.”

If he had found him, surely he would have said so before this. Cas looks steadily back at him and doesn’t reply. 

“I found nothing.” Dean shakes his head. “No trace of him anywhere. I’d never really--” he pauses, voice shaking. “I never wanted to admit it. I always thought he would come home eventually. If I just stayed there, if I waited long enough.”

“I’m sorry.” The words are hardly adequate, but they’re all Cas has. “I wish I could have been there with you.”

“Don’t be.” A faint hint of a smile appears in the depths of Dean’s eyes. “I needed that time. That clarity. I think I finally understand, now.”

“Understand what?”

Dean lets out a long breath. “You said I was running so fast I was standing still. You were right. I stayed because I thought I had to, because I needed to be there for my dad if he ever came home. I thought I stayed because I still had hope.” He pushes his hair away from his face, hiding it from Cas’ view. “It wasn’t that. I stayed because I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving and figuring things out on my own. I wrapped it all up in duty and loyalty and all that other bullshit, but I was just afraid.”

“Afraid of being alone?” Cas asks. His hands twitch where they rest on his thighs, aching to reach out to Dean, but he senses the time isn’t quite right. 

“Yeah.” Dean looks up and gives him a wry look. “I made myself alone so that I could say it was my choice. I closed myself off from everything, pretending it was the noble thing to do. It wasn’t. I’ve missed out on--” he shakes his head again. “So much. I convinced myself people in town were afraid of me, that it was better if I didn’t interact with them often. These past few days, I’ve seen the truth of it. They would have welcomed me with open arms if I’d ever given the slightest hint that I wanted to be welcomed.”

Cas doesn’t doubt it. From the first time he heard Dean’s name, it had been spoken with sadness, not fear. Donna had hugged him, he remembers. Dean had looked so surprised, but so pleased. 

“They’re good people,” he says. “You’re not meant to be alone, Dean. I could tell from the way you acted when I imposed my company on you last week.”

“You weren’t imposing.” This time, the smile reaches Dean’s lips. “I liked having you there.”

The bald statement settles warmly into Cas’ chest, and he returns the smile. “It isn’t easy, though, is it? Opening yourself up to others.”

Dean gives him a shrewd look. “We’re not talking about me anymore, are we?”

“We are.” Cas shrugs. “But about me, too.”

“Your hunter friends?” Dean guesses.

“They’re good people too,” Cas says. “And more than that. They’ve all had their own horrible experiences, and emerged stronger for them. If anyone could understand, it would be them. But I still--” he spreads his hands before him in a helpless gesture. “I still can’t quite bring myself to let them in.”

“Because you’re afraid to lose them.” Dean’s voice is quiet and understanding.

Cas closes his eyes. “Yes.”

“It would still hurt, though, wouldn’t it? If you did lose them?”

He doesn’t even want to think about it. But the answer is obvious. “Yes.”

Dean gives him a sad smile. “So you’re screwed either way.”

It startles a laugh from Cas. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Despite the bluntness of his words, Dean is right. Cas has held himself distant for too long. Charlie and the others are waiting for him, with trust and respect and affection and all sorts of other gifts he’s been too stubborn to accept. He needs to go back to them, to let himself embrace everything they’ve offered him all these years. For all his words to Dean about running away, he’s been doing exactly the same thing.

“What about you?” he asks. “What are you going to do?”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. Slowly try to step back into the world, I guess. I want to do something worthwhile, you know? Yesterday, the case-- even though it was shitty, it felt good. Like I was helping.”

“You were. You did.” 

“I want to feel that again. Maybe Donna will take me on as an intern.” Dean smiles. “I think I’d be good at it.”

“You would,” Cas agrees.

“I just want to do something for me,” Dean says quietly. “I was so mad at Sam when he left. I thought he was betraying me, betraying Dad. I thought he was selfish, and I told him so. God, I was such an ass. I think I get it now. He did what was right for him. He always was the smart one.”

Before he can change his mind, Cas reaches out and lays one hand over Dean’s. Dean turns his hand so they’re properly entwined, his fingers cold at first but gradually warming in Cas’ hold.

They sit like that for a few moments, until Dean turns to look at him, a strange expression on his face. “You used to be a priest.”

Cas blinks, not following the abrupt change in topic. “Yes.”

“Do you think--” Dean hesitates, pulling his lower lip between his teeth. “That felt a bit like going to confession.”

“It did.” They exchange long looks, Cas speculative, Dean hopeful. “Do you think--”

“I guess I’ll find out tonight.” A new light burns behind Dean’s eyes. “Don’t you have to give me some prayers to recite or something?”

“I’m not a priest anymore,” Cas reminds him. 

“No.” Dean tilts his head to the side, both questioning and inviting. “You’re not.”

Cas’ breath catches in his throat. Slowly, he disentangles their hands, and raises his to cup Dean’s cheek. Dean turns his head into the touch, lips slightly parted, eyes wide with a painful hope. 

“May I?” Cas asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Dean closes his eyes, the sweep of his eyelashes illuminated by the light spilling through the stained glass windows. “Yes.”

Their lips meet, soft at first. The barest amount of pressure, but then Dean moans, or maybe Cas sighs, and they move closer together, the kiss deepening as their arms wrap around one another.

If their earlier conversation was a confession, then this is a most sacred vow.

They pull apart after a few minutes, or maybe an eternity. Cas leans his forehead against Dean’s and shudders. He feels Dean’s lips, feather-soft against his cheek. “Come home with me,” Dean murmurs. 

Cas draws back to look into his eyes. He shouldn’t. He should be leaving for the bunker even now. It will only make it hurt more when he does leave. No. It will hurt either way. They’ve both been stripped bare in each other’s presence, in this place, and there’s no sense denying either of them what they want. They’ve both done enough of that.

“Yes,” he says.

As they rise to their feet, Dean looks up at the window above them. “I hated that image,” he says. “I came here to escape the wolf, to remember a happier time for my family, and it felt like it was taunting me. So I covered it up. But then I came back one day, and somebody had cleared it off.”

Cas bites his lip. “That was me,” he admits. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think--”

Dean shakes his head, still looking at the window and not at Cas. “It’s fine. It’s kind of fitting, don’t you think?”

Looking at him, bathed in the golden glow of the sun, Cas nods. The world works in mysterious ways. They’ll probably never know why someone added that particular depiction of Saint Christopher to this church, but seeing the peace on Dean’s face now, Cas can’t argue with the rightness of it. 

They walk down the aisle hand in hand. Dean slips out the door first, and Cas pauses, looking back towards the altar. His hand drifts to the rosary around his neck, and he smiles. “Thank you,” he says to the empty church. 

Then he turns and follows after Dean, closing the door tightly behind them.

Driving back to Dean’s house in separate vehicles is agony. By the time Cas pulls his truck to a stop in front of the house, his heart is racing. Ahead of him, Dean is at the door, fumbling with the lock. Cas closes the distance between them and presses himself against Dean’s back, too many layers of fabric between them for either of their liking. 

The door finally swings open, and they’re crashing through it, hands scrabbling at coat buttons and lips seeking each other as Dean kicks the door shut behind them. He’s already backing away down the hallway, outer layers falling to the floor as they stumble together towards Dean’s bedroom. 

Once there, they slow down. Dean holds Cas’ face between both his hands and kisses him like he has all the time in the world, a long, luxurious kiss that leaves Cas’ head spinning. They’re pressed close together, and when Cas shifts slightly to kiss Dean again, he can feel the press of his erection against his side. Dean’s evident desire magnifies his own, and Cas kisses him hungrily, a decadent slide of lips and tongues that steals the breath from their lungs.

He draws back and rests his hands against Dean’s chest, toying with the buttons on his plaid shirt. “It’s been a long time,” he admits.

Dean catches his hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “For me too.” His words are soft, but his eyes shine fierce. “I want you, Cas.”

“Yes,” Cas says again, already returning his hand to its earlier place to begin the process of unbuttoning Dean’s shirt. He presses a kiss to the exposed skin at the base of Dean’s throat and feels him shudder at the touch. 

The flexing of his hands at his sides is the only movement Dean makes as Cas slowly peels off his clothing. Shirt, jeans, socks, all disappear until Dean stands before him in only his boxers, chest rising and falling with his rapid breaths. 

He’s so beautiful. And so brave, only a slight tightness around his eyes revealing how much it’s costing him to be so still. Cas lays one hand directly over his heart as he gathers him close to kiss him again, and Dean melts into his embrace.

“Let me see you,” he whispers into Cas’ ear. “Please.”

If Dean can be brave, then so can he. Cas nods, gently guiding to Dean to sit at the edge of the bed while he removes his own clothes. Dean watches, a rosy flush spreading across his cheeks and chest as Cas strips, not even trying to make it a seduction. He’s never been ashamed of his body, but the way Dean looks at him makes him feel more attractive than he ever has.

Clad in only his boxer-briefs, he stands in front of Dean, who reaches out to touch the tattoo on his chest. “What is it?” he asks.

“Anti-possession symbol,” Cas explains. He sees from Dean’s wince that he understands. But Cas doesn’t want to dwell on the past, not now. He lets Dean draw him forward onto the bed, turning onto their sides so they can continue to kiss. 

With so much bare skin on display, the urgency returns. Cas runs a hand down Dean’s back, feeling the flex of muscles under his palm, and Dean moans. He pulls Cas closer, then flips them over so Cas is flat on his back. Dean looks down at him and smiles, tracing the line of his eyebrow with one fingertip. Cas buries his hands in Dean’s hair and brings his face down for another kiss.

Dean is so warm. Cas touches him everywhere, learning the dip of his spine and the curve of his shoulder blade, the fragile skin in the bend of his elbow and the light trail of hair that leads down into his boxers. He slides his hands around to rest on Dean’s hips and looks up at him, waiting.

Dean nods, and Cas gently pulls his underwear down and over his hips, tossing them aside. It requires a bit of maneuvering, but he does the same, and then there’s nothing left to between them. 

For a long time after leaving the church, Cas threw himself headfirst into casual sex, looking for escape in the fleeting pleasure of another body pressed against his. It worked for a while, and he enjoyed it at the time, but once the novelty wore off, he found himself going to bed alone more often than not. Hookups had lost their appeal, and he wasn’t letting anyone close enough to make it more than that. He’d voluntarily signed up for a life of celibacy at one point, and he could go without sex if he had to.

But right now, it isn’t even about the desire or the pursuit of pleasure. Dean’s hands trace patterns over his bare chest, skimming lightly across his stomach, and in them Cas finds comfort, a deep peace he hadn’t realized he was missing. Dean’s hands are calloused, but they run over Cas’ skin with something like reverence. Simply for the joy of touch, he runs his hands up the back of Dean’s thighs, feeling them tremble as he does. 

It brings them even closer together, their lower bodies in aching contact. “Touch me,” Dean says, kissing a line down the side of Cas’ neck. “I need you to--”

Cas doesn’t hesitate to obey. He reaches between them and wraps his hand around Dean’s length, feeling him hiss with pleasure as he does. Dean is warm and heavy in his hand, his hips already moving as he thrusts forward into Cas’ grip. 

He’s already close, Cas can tell. Dean drops his head to rest in the crook of Cas’ shoulder as Cas continues to stroke him. “Let go,” Cas murmurs into his ear. “Let go, Dean.”

With a choked-off sob, Dean does, spilling hot over Cas’ hand. Cas smooths his hair away from his forehead with his clean hand, then presses a kiss there, holding him until his trembling subsides. 

When it does, Dean’s energy returns with surprising swiftness. He looms above Cas, braced on one arm as he gently nudges Cas’ legs further apart and settles between them. His hand closes over Cas’ cock and Cas arches back against the pillows, groaning. He keeps his eyes open, watching as Dean works at him with those talented hands. The physical sensations are overwhelming, but it’s more than that. Dean is more than that. 

When he comes, it’s on a long exhale, his eyes steady on Dean’s face.

They brush their lips together, no need for words. They’re both sweaty and sticky and they’ve made a terrible mess of Dean’s bed, but Cas doesn’t care. He’s never felt so content. 

Eventually, Dean sighs and rolls onto his back beside Cas. “We should get cleaned up.”

“Mmn-hmn.” Cas doesn’t move. “I suppose so.”

Dean laughs and climbs to his feet with a groan. “Also, I’m hungry.”

Cas props himself up on one elbow, watching him. It’s only early afternoon, the winter sunlight spilling in through the window and lending warmth to all of Dean’s exposed skin. “I guess we had better keep our strength up.”

“Exactly.” Dean looks so smug that Cas simply has to kiss him, so he pulls himself out of the bed and crosses the room to do just that. 

The long hours of the day pass in lazy, indulgent pleasure. After a shared shower, they eat lunch pressed close together at the kitchen table. Dean slides his foot up Cas’ leg and Cas stands so abruptly he knocks his chair over and drags Dean back to bed, then has to dash back out to his truck in only his jeans because all the condoms in Dean’s nightstand have long since passed their expiry date. He comes back to find Dean naked on the bed, hands stroking between his own legs, and the world narrows to just the two of them again. Later, they make dinner wearing only their underwear and the aprons Dean insists on, not wanting either of their chests to get burned. They curl up together on the couch, kissing for the simple pleasure of it, until the desire between them burns as brightly as the flames in the fireplace and Cas pulls Dean down onto the rug before the hearth and rides him into exhaustion.

They’re still panting, Cas draped over Dean’s chest as Dean traces slow circles on his back. Cas raises himself on his forearms and looks down into Dean’s face. As wonderful as this day has been, it isn’t enough. 

“Come with me,” he says.

Dean blinks up at him. “To Kansas?”

“Yes.” Cas’ heart is in his throat, and he offers it up to Dean with every word. “I think you’ll like Charlie and Ellen and the others. And they’ll ask you a thousand questions about yourself, but you won’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“And then what? Are you going to give up hunting?”

Cas has been asking himself the same thing. “No,” he says. “At least, not yet. I still think it’s important. I still want to help people. And there’s still a werewolf with a body count on the loose out there. But I want to do it differently now. And maybe, in a few years, I’ll be ready to step back. To live a different kind of life.”

In the firelight, Dean’s expression is unreadable. “I want to help people.”

Cas tilts his head to the side as he looks down at him. “You want to--”

“Yeah.” Dean’s grin is as sudden as it is brilliant. “I think I’d make a good hunter.”

“You would.” Cas’ heart gives a painful twinge at the thought of the danger Dean would be throwing himself into, but considering it’s the same danger he faces on every case, he has no room to protest. “And there’s no better place to learn than the Roadhouse.”

“And then someday, that different life,” Dean says softly. “Yeah. That sounds pretty good to me.”

Cas leans down to kiss him, pouring all of his joy and his gratitude into the gesture. Dean returns the kiss with similar abandon, then pulls back, looking up at Cas with a slight frown on his face.

“What is it?” Cas asks, a sudden chill passing over him.

Dean smiles, reassuring. “One condition,” he says. “We’re taking the Impala.”


	17. Chapter 17

The farewell tour starts at the sheriff’s station.

When they walk into her office, Donna is at her computer, about ten different tabs open showing different lore sites. Cas fights back a grin as he comes around the desk and points to a few of the more reputable sources. “Don’t believe everything you read online.”

“It’s pretty hard to believe any of it, even after what I saw.” She pushes a strand of hair away from her face and shakes her head. “But now that I know, I want to know everything.”

Dean grins at her. “Good for you.”

Cas pulls out a card and scribbles a few numbers on it. “You can always reach out to me. I’ve also written down my friend Charlie’s number. She taught me almost everything I know.” He taps the third number. “But you might want to start here, with Jody Mills. She’s a fellow sheriff, actually, out in South Dakota.”

“She knows about this kind of thing too?” Donna seems intrigued at the idea.

“She does. I think the two of you would have lots of talk about. Just tell her I gave you her number before going further. She can be a bit abrupt, at times.”

Donna’s fingers close over the card. “Thanks, Agent Draper.” Her eyes narrow in suspicion. “That’s not even your real name, is it?”

“No.” Cas extends his hand towards her. “Cas Novak. Not FBI.”

“Donna Hanscum.” She shakes his hand firmly, beaming. “Not just a small-town sheriff.”

“Definitely not.” Dean reaches out and pulls Donna into a hug. “Thanks for saving our asses, Sheriff.”

“They’re well worth saving.” She winks at both of them, and Dean and Cas exchange grins over her head. She’ll hear no arguments from them on that point. 

“I’m, uh, heading out with Cas.” Dean sneaks a glance at him as he makes the announcement, and Cas gives his most reassuring smile. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Will you keep an eye on the place for me?”

Donna’s eyes widen, but she accepts the key Dean passes to her readily enough. “Of course.” 

“Remember, we’re only a phone call away,” Cas says.

She rolls her eyes at him, but she’s still smiling. “Go on now, you two. I’ve got this.”

“Yeah, you do.” Dean offers her a teasing salute, and she waves them on their way.

They exchange brief farewells with Kevin and Garth, and Nancy blushes furiously when Dean winks at her in passing. “I see how it is,” Cas says, sighing. “You’ve bottled up your charm for so long, hiding away from the world, and now it’s spilling all over the place.”

Dean laughs and slides his hand into Cas’ as he pushes open the door. “Guess you’d better stick around, then, so I don’t have to set it loose on any more unsuspecting victims.”

“Fine.” Cas tightens his grip on Dean’s hand, only breaking it so they can get back in the car. Dean is driving, of course. He looks impossibly good behind the wheel of the Impala, like he belongs there. Cas is already starting to get accustomed to the passenger seat as well, but he thinks in time he might be able to persuade Dean to let him drive. 

Their next destination is Caribou. They chat lightly at first, but Cas notices Dean’s replies becoming shorter, his smiles becoming more strained. 

“We don’t have to do this,” he says quietly. “Any of it. You can still change your mind.”

Dean shakes his head, eyes fixed on the road. “No. It’s long past time. I haven’t seen my brother in years, Cas. I’ve never even met his fiancée.”

“Okay.” Cas extends his hand, leaving it upturned on the seat between them. A few minutes later, Dean reaches out to take it. 

Cas directs them to Sam and Sarah’s house. It looks even cozier with the light blanket of snow covering the yard. Dean climbs out of the car and stares across the street, shoulders stiff. His jaw is tight like he’s ready to walk into a fight, but when he turns to look at Cas, there’s nervousness in his eyes.

“Come on.” Cas heads towards the house, trusting Dean to follow. “It’ll be okay.”

He knocks on the door, and it opens to reveal Sarah’s smiling face. Her eyes widen and her smile dims as she recognizes Cas, not even looking to see Dean coming up behind him. “Agent Draper? Is everything alright?”

“I certainly hope so.” Cas moves aside slightly so Sarah can see Dean. He has a brave smile on his face, but his posture is still stiff. 

She looks at him for a long moment, then raises one hand to press to her mouth. “Sam,” she calls, not looking away from them, “we’ve got company.”

She steps back to let them into the house. Cas hears footsteps clattering down the stairs, and Sam appears in the hallway, Bones at his heels. He doesn’t seem to register Cas’ presence, all his attention fixed on Dean.

Pale but determined, Dean gives him a weak smile. “Hey, Sammy.”

Sam doesn’t say anything. He swallows visibly, takes a step forward, then halts. He runs a hand through his hair, and then somehow he and Dean are in each other’s arms, holding each other so tightly Cas fears one of them might break.

He feels a gentle hand on his arm and looks down to see Sarah giving him a wry smile. “Let’s give them a moment. I’ll put the coffee on.”

Bones trots along beside them as she leads Cas into the kitchen. He can hear Dean and Sam’s voices from the hall, but he deliberately tunes out their words. Some things are best left between only those directly involved. He takes a seat at the table and obliges Bones’ silent request for head scratches as Sarah starts the coffee maker, then comes to sit across from him.

“So.” She folds her arms on the table and gives him a level stare. “Is this purely a social visit?”

“Yes.” He isn’t sure how much she knows-- about Sam’s family history, about the supernatural, about his estrangement from Dean. It seems best to be cautious, at least for now. “I’m mostly just here for moral support.”

One corner of her mouth lifts in a smile. “Fair enough. You caught whoever you were looking for, then?”

“We did.” He sees her arch her eyebrow at the word _we_ , but she doesn’t question it.

“Good.” Her smile widens. “I don’t want another round of angry interrogation, thank you very much.”

“I am sorry about that. It’s just the job.” He shrugs. “But I could probably be less, ah, angry about it.”

Sarah waves a dismissive hand in the air. “I’ll get over it. I have a sneaking suspicion we’re going to end up seeing a lot of each other in the future, Agent Draper, and besides, Bones seems to like you. I trust his judgment.”

“Thank you.” He hesitates only a moment, then says, “And it’s Cas.”

With a firm nod, she rises from the table. “Alright, Cas. Does it seem a little too quiet to you? Maybe we should go check on them.”

They find Sam and Dean in the living room, talking quietly but intently. Sarah slides onto the couch beside Sam while Cas takes the armchair next to Dean’s. Dean looks up and gives him a small smile, and Cas is pleased to see the strain has disappeared from around his eyes.

“So,” Sam says, looking over at the two of them, “sounds like quite the adventure you two had.”

Cas casts a wary look at Sarah, which Sam intercepts. “Sarah knows everything,” he says. “We don’t have any secrets.”

“You could have told me that, you know,” Cas says to her. “I was trying so hard to be careful with what I said.”

“I know.” She wrinkles her nose up in what might be an expression of remorse if it weren’t for the mischief in her eyes. “But it was too much fun to watch you squirm.”

Dean snorts with laughter. “I like you already,” he declares. “Which is probably a good thing, seeing as you’re going to be my sister-in-law. Sorry I haven’t had the chance to get to know you until now.”

She shrugs. “You weren’t the only one being stubborn.”

Sam gives her a wounded look, and she presses a kiss to his cheek. “I love your stubbornness, by the way.”

“I have missed out on a lot, though.” Dean looks between the two of them, the clear affection and attachment they share. “I don’t even know how you met.”

They both dissolve into laughter. “It was a disaster,” Sam says. “I was just finishing up my college courses and trying to find a job. Sarah’s dad owned the gallery at the time, and they were looking for help. I wasn’t qualified at all, but I put on my best clothes and tried to bullshit my way through an interview with only one introductory course in Art History to help me out.”

“I saw through him immediately,” Sarah continues, giving him a fond look. “But he was cute, and like I said, stubborn. We didn’t hire him, but when he came back the next day, I said yes when he asked me out.”

“Eventually, the business side fell into place.” Sam grins. “And I won over her dad eventually too.”

“They’re terrible together now,” Sarah says, making a face. “Fishing and whiskey and all those other things.”

Cas watches Dean’s face as they talk, sharing more stories from their time together. There’s a hungry expression on Dean’s face as he absorbs all the history he’s missed, but he laughs readily and seems genuinely happy to be here now. Cas relaxes, knowing they’ve done the right thing in coming here today.

They end up staying the night, which neither of them planned on doing. But Sam and Sarah insist, Sam looking at Dean with a plaintive expression that Dean crumbles under. They talk late into the night, and finally retire when Sarah can barely get a word out around her yawns. Sam is only slightly awkward when mentioning the guest room, and Dean just rolls his eyes and drags Cas upstairs by the hand, effectively answering any questions Sam and Sarah might have had about the exact nature of their relationship.

Dean collapses onto the bed with a sigh, burying his face in the pillows. “I’m exhausted,” he mumbles. 

Cas strips down to his boxers, then nudges Dean over so he can lie down beside him. “You did a brave thing today.”

Rolling onto his side, Dean looks over at him. “I should have done it a lot sooner.”

Reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from his forehead, Cas shrugs. “Maybe.” He hesitates, torn between his desire to respect Dean’s privacy and his curiosity about what exactly he and Sam said to one another. “It went well, then?”

“Yeah.” Dean laughs, shaking his head in wonderment. “He was freaking out because you were with me, and he thought you were still going to arrest me or whatever, but once I calmed him down, we got all that sorted out. Then we were both just apologizing over top of each other and--” he breaks off, eyes shining. “God, Cas. I missed him so much. He’s good, though. Happy.”

“I know.” Cas swallows past the lump in his throat and presses a kiss to Dean’s forehead. “I’m so glad for you, Dean.”

Dean closes his eyes on a shuddering exhale, then opens them again, frowning. “Fuck,” he says. “I’m so sorry, Cas. I didn’t even think about how hard this might be for you, seeing me and Sam getting another chance when--”

“No.” Cas shakes his head. “Don’t, Dean. I don’t begrudge you your happiness. It’s all I want for you.” His hand creeps up to toy with the rosary around his neck. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that life is too short. I’m glad you and Sam are going to be present in each other’s lives again.”

“You’re a good man, Cas Novak.” Dean reaches out and presses a warm palm to his cheek. “I think your family would be proud of you.”

“I hope so.” Cas draws Dean’s hand down to rest in the space between their bodies, holding it tightly. “Maybe after we go back to the bunker, we can take a drive out to Illinois. I haven’t been back since--” he trails off, looking away. He’s never visited his family’s graves. Never visited Father Lucca. It’s probably about time he did both.

Dean squeezes his hand. “I’d like that.”

“It’s settled, then.” Cas yawns, feeling the events of the past few days start to catch up to him. Dean pulls him closer, and they soon drop off into sleep.

In the morning, Dean kicks Sam and Sarah out of the kitchen to make french toast. Cas is permitted to stay to make coffee. Breakfast is noisy and exuberant, Sam and Dean bickering over the relative merits of blueberries and raspberries while Bones sits close to Cas, begging for scraps. 

After they finish eating, it’s time to head out. “You look out for my brother out there,” Sam instructs as he shakes Cas’ hand. “Hunting isn’t exactly a safe career choice.”

“No,” Cas agrees, “it isn’t. But I think Dean has had enough of playing it safe.”

They both turn to look over at Dean and Sarah, who are exchanging contact information while Sarah eagerly provides all the details they’ve worked out for the wedding. “It’s good to see him happy,” Sam says softly. “Make sure he stays that way, alright?”

As far as threatening speeches go, it’s mild, but there’s a thread of steel in Sam’s voice that’s reminiscent of his earlier warnings to Cas to stay away from Dean. So he just nods and says, “I’ll do my best.”

Dean comes to join them, looking between them with his lips pursed. “You’d better not be exchanging blackmail material about me.”

Cas raises an eyebrow. “We weren’t, but thank you for the idea.” He turns back to Sam with a grin. “Please don’t hesitate to text me any incriminating childhood memories you may come up with.”

“Asshole,” Dean mutters, but he softens it by pressing a kiss to Cas’ cheek. “Well. We’d better hit the road.”

“I see you brought the Impala back out.” Sam nods towards the car parked across the street. “That’s good. She’s not meant to be shut up in a garage.”

“Yeah.” Dean smiles. “I know.”

They stand awkwardly, neither of them quite willing to speak first. Sarah comes up beside Cas and shakes her head in exasperation. Cas shrugs, and finally Dean crumbles and pulls Sam in for a hug. 

“It’s been so good to see you,” he says, voice muffled by the fact that his face is pressed into Sam’s broad shoulder. 

“You too.” Sam’s voice is suspiciously hoarse. “I’m really glad you came, Dean.”

“I hope you’ll be back soon,” Sarah says as they part. She slips an arm around Sam’s waist, looking up at him. “Long before the wedding.”

“I think we can manage that.” Dean’s smile is only slightly shaky. “Yeah, we can definitely manage that.”

Sam and Sarah come out to the porch to wave them goodbye, Bones at their side. Dean beeps the horn at them as he pulls away, waving until they’re lost to sight. “So,” he says when they reach the turn for the interstate, “we still going to meet your family next?”

It takes a moment for Dean’s words to register, for Cas to realize he isn’t talking about a cemetery outside a small church in Illinois. He’s talking about the Roadhouse and the bunker below it, and all the people who come and go from there. The family Cas has been blessed with, even if he’s been too proud to recognize them as such until now.

“Yes, please.” He turns his head and smiles. “But there’s no rush.”

So they take their time. They stop at weird roadside attractions and take grinning pictures in front of them. They eat greasy diner food and sleep in cheap motels, the beds made a thousand times more comfortable just by virtue of sharing them. Dean eventually does let Cas drive, and he stares at him with such undisguised desire as he does that Cas ends up turning off the road onto a deserted dirt lane so they can share frantic, sloppy handjobs in the front seat. 

The fourth night is unseasonably warm. They’ve stopped at a motel and eaten at the attached restaurant, and Dean suggests a walk before bed. There’s a small wooded area at the back of motel with a winding path through it, and they stroll along it, hand in hand.

Dean stops suddenly, looking around them. He takes a deep breath and meets Cas’ eyes, and Cas understands in that instant that this isn’t just a casual nighttime stroll. It’s a test. They’ve been so distracted until now that Cas has mostly forgotten about the possible repercussions of their conversation in the church.

He takes a step back, clasping his hands in front of him. Dean strips off his clothes, his bare skin glowing in the moonlight, and closes his eyes.

Nothing happens.

Dean opens his eyes with a choked-off sob. He runs his hands over his own body as though he can’t quite believe it’s skin he’s feeling, not the thick fur of the wolf. His arms wrap around his waist and he shivers, his face tilted up towards the moon in silent conversation. Cas watches, his heart breaking quietly in his chest, as Dean eventually looks down, letting loose a deep sigh.

He stoops to gather his clothes with trembling hands, and Cas takes a step forward. Dean holds up a hand to stop him and Cas halts, waiting until he’s fully dressed before moving towards him again. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

Dean shakes his head. “I’m not.” But he doesn’t sound like he means it.

Cas steps forward again, and this time Dean moves to meet him. Cas wraps him in his arms and lets Dean’s head rest on his shoulder as he lets out a shaky breath. “It’s gone,” Dean says. “The wolf. It’s gone.”

He can feel Dean’s tears sliding into the patch of exposed skin between his neck and shoulder though he makes no sound. Cas tightens his arms around him, pressing his lips to Dean’s hair. After a few minutes, Dean shudders and draws back, eyes reddened and cheeks wet. “I wanted it gone,” he says quietly. “I wanted to be normal. But now that it is, I feel so--” he shrugs. “Empty.”

“Change is never easy,” Cas says with a wry smile. He raises his hand and wipes away the last traces of Dean’s tears. “It was a part of you. There’s no shame in grieving its loss.”

Dean nods, burrowing closer to Cas again. They stand like that until the cold begins to pierce through their layers, and then Cas guides them back to their motel room and undresses Dean again, painstakingly slow. They make love in silence, their bodies speaking for them, and when Dean comes, he gasps out Cas’ name and pulls his face down for a kiss that seems to last forever.

They cross into Kansas the next day.

Cas gives Dean directions, ignoring his look of surprise when he makes the turn off the highway and onto the road that leads to the Roadhouse. “I know, it doesn’t look like much,” Cas says. “But that’s kind of the point.”

Dean glances over at him. “Nervous?”

“No.” Cas shakes his head. His excitement has been building all day. “I’m glad to be back. And I’m glad you’re with me.”

A faint flush appears in Dean’s cheeks. “And you say I’m the charming one.”

“You are.” Cas reaches across the seat and squeezes his shoulder. “That’s why I know they’re all going to love you.”

Dean parks the Impala outside the Roadhouse and gives it an approving look. “My kind of dive,” he proclaims.

“Don’t let Ellen hear you call it that,” Cas cautions. He takes a deep breath and pushes open the door, Dean a reassuring presence behind him.

Much like the last time he was here, he spots Jo first. She looks up at him from across the bar, and a grin spreads across her face. “The prodigal son returns.” She turns to yell towards the office. “Mom! Cas is back!”

“So much for a quiet entrance,” Cas mutters under his breath. Dean nudges him forward, and then he’s introducing Dean and Jo, and then Ellen is there, pulling him into a hug while chastising him for showing up unannounced so long after he left Maine. Cas barely has a chance to get a word in edgewise, and that’s when Ellen finally notices Dean hovering awkwardly behind them.

“And who’s this?” she demands. “Cas, you didn’t say you were bringing company.”

“I’m fairly certain I did.” Cas shakes his head. “Either way. Ellen, this is Dean Winchester. We met in Maine. Dean, this is Ellen Harvelle. This is her bar.”

Dean sticks out his hand and gives Ellen his best grin. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

Ellen raises one eyebrow and looks between Dean and Cas. Cas just shrugs, and he reads her understanding of the situation in her eyes. “Don’t give me any of that ma’am crap,” she says brusquely. “It’s Ellen. Welcome to the Roadhouse.”

Dean opens his mouth to reply, but his words are drowned out by Charlie’s piercing shriek as she comes tearing up the stairs and throws herself at Cas. He wraps her in his arms and laughs, smiling at Dean over the top of her head. “Hi, Charlie.”

She draws back and punches him in the shoulder. “You were supposed to be back days ago.”

Cas winces. “I know. I’m sorry. We got side-tracked.”

“We?” She frowns. “Who’s we?”

From behind her, Dean coughs politely. “Me, I’m guessing.”

Charlie whirls to look at him. “Holy crap,” she says. “You’re Dean.”

For the first time, Dean’s face betrays a hint of nervousness. “Yes?”

“I found your picture online when I was trying to dig up dirt on you for the case but I had no idea you were going to be here--” she breaks off, narrowing her eyes at Cas. “I’m missing something.”

Dean and Cas exchange glances, and Cas shrugs. It’s Dean’s choice how much he wants to share with them, and when. Dean runs a hand through his hair and offers Charlie a smile. “I hear you’re pretty good at teaching people how to be hunters.”

Jo, who has been fairly quiet up to this point, suddenly starts to laugh. “Only you, Cas,” she says. “Only you would go off on a hunt by yourself and come back with a prospective _partner_.” There’s a particular stress on the word that shows she’s aware of the multiple meanings of that word, but there’s nothing malicious in it. In fact, she looks quite pleased.

Once all the initial chaos has subsided, Charlie leads them downstairs into the bunker. Dean looks around with wide eyes, suitably awed at their surroundings. “You live here?” he whispers. “This is awesome.”

“It is,” Cas agrees. He’s taken all of it for granted, but no more. It’s time he learned to appreciate the good things he has in his life. 

“So,” Charlie says, her casually innocent tone not fooling Cas for a second. “How long are you staying with us, Dean? Should we get you set up with a room?”

Dean gives Cas a questioning look, and Cas smiles back at him. “No,” Dean says, winking at Charlie. “I think I’ll be staying with Cas.”

Charlie doesn’t break stride, but she does give Cas a broad grin. “Alrighty then. Let’s get you settled in, then we’ll get everyone together for introductions and a thrilling rundown of the last month.”

She leads them down the bunker’s familiar halls and pushes open the door to Cas’ room. Dean steps in, looking around at the blank walls and the neatly made bed, but before Cas can follow, Charlie lays a hand on his arm.

“Hey.” The mischief has gone from her eyes, replaced by something Cas can’t easily identify. “I’m really proud of you, Cas.”

He clears his throat, which suddenly fees suspiciously tight. “Thank you. It took a lot of work, and it was close at the end, but we got the case closed.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not what I’m talking about.” 

Cas frowns at her. “I don’t--”

She raises one eyebrow and gestures at Dean, just visible through the open door. 

“Oh,” Cas says, flushing.

“I don’t know exactly what happened between the two of you, but the fact that you brought him here? That you told him about us? That’s huge, Cas. I’ve never seen you let anyone in like that.”

“It was more than that,” Cas says softly. “Charlie, I told him everything.”

She’s the only other one who knows his story. Knows exactly what it took to bring him here. Her eyes go wide, and her hand tightens on his arm. “Oh, Cas. That’s--” she breaks off, shaking her head. “Wow. I guess sending you off on your own was a good thing after all.”

“Maybe.” Cas thinks back to that morning, how angry he was, how selfish. It certainly wasn’t his finest hour. “But you were right. I shouldn’t have gone off on my own, even if it did all work out in the end. The case, and… other things.”

Charlie laughs, eyes bright again. “Well, it looks like we won’t have to worry about you being on your own anymore, will we?” 

“No,” Cas agrees. He glances inside the room at Dean, who’s sprawled on the bed like he belongs there. “We won’t.”

She pats his arm and turns to leave. “I’ll give you guys some time to relax, but you know Ellen will be going all out for dinner tonight, and you’ll be the guests of honour.”

A month ago, Cas would have shuddered at the thought. Now, he just smiles. “See you then.”

He closes the door behind him and turns to look at Dean, who has rolled back off the bed and is standing with his back to Cas. “Dean?”

Dean turns, clearing his throat. “I hope this is okay.” He gestures at the nightstand behind him that had previously been hidden by his body. On the empty surface, he’s arranged the three family pictures that used to sit on his bookcase.

Cas’ breath catches in his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “Of course it’s okay.” 

Dean gives him a small smile, then his eyes turn curious. “You don’t have anything of your own in here,” he says, looking around. “No photos…”

“I didn’t take anything with me when I left. Everything is in storage.” He had thought he would be less haunted, somehow, if he left it all behind.

Dean nods, but his eyes are tight. Cas looks at the pictures he’s displayed so proudly, the smiles on all the Winchester faces. “Maybe--” he says, then pauses. “Maybe when we go to Illinois, we can go through the storage locker. There are some photos in there.”

Sitting down on the bed, Dean gives him an encouraging smile. “I think that’s a great idea.”

It would be nice to have his family here with them, even if only in photographs. Anna’s bright hair, Balthazar’s mocking eyebrows. His mother’s kind eyes, and his father’s proud smile. It’s how he wants to remember them. And maybe, just maybe, it will finally help drive the nightmare away.

He joins Dean on the bed and blatantly curls himself into his side. Dean huffs a laugh, but wraps his arms around him easily enough. He rests his chin on top of Cas’ head and sighs in contentment. “I think I’m going to like it here.”

Cas closes his eyes, a warmth he hasn’t felt in years settling into his chest. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

***

Just as Charlie predicted, Ellen does indeed go all out for dinner that night. Dean and Cas emerge from their room-- and how wonderful and strange it is to think of it as _theirs_ now, not just Cas’-- and make their way up to the Roadhouse. Dean insisted on changing into a clean shirt and tidying his hair, which had been disheveled by their embrace, and Cas only teased him a little bit for wanting to make a good impression.

“Nervous?” Cas asks as they climb the stairs.

“What?” Dean throws a cocky grin over his shoulder. “About meeting a group of highly-trained and by all accounts often bad-tempered hunters who may or may not want to kill me for a variety of reasons, ranging from the fact that I used to be something they might hunt to the fact that I’m banging their star pupil?”

Cas nearly trips over a step, scowling at Dean as he rights himself. “I am not their star pupil.”

“I like how that’s what you took offense to, out of everything I just said.” Dean rolls his eyes and reels Cas in for a quick kiss before they step through the iron door. “I’m fine. Really. I knew what I was getting myself in for when I agreed to come here with you.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Cas says dryly, and pushes open the door.

Loud cheers and applause greet them as they step into the bar. Ellen, Jo, and Charlie are right at the front of the crowd, immediately sweeping both Dean and Cas into hugs. After that, it’s a flurry of introductions as Dean meets hunters and Women of Letters alike. Cas has smiles and handshakes for all of them, including the few new faces. He’s never seen the Roadhouse so packed.

He and Dean are separated in all the chaos, and after greeting Eileen Leahy, newly arrived from Ireland, Cas looks around, hoping Dean hasn’t been overwhelmed by the avalanche of new people. For someone who has kept to himself for so long, this might be all a bit much. But no-- Dean is engrossed in a conversation with Charlie, their hands flying in enthusiastic animation as they talk. Dorothy is watching them with amused patience, and she catches Cas’ eye and raises her drink to him in commiseration. 

“Here.” Someone presses a cold beer into Cas’ hand, and he looks up in thanks and meets Cesar’s steady gaze. “Can’t have the guest of honour without a drink.”

Cas salutes him with the bottle before taking a long sip. “I thought you were back in New Mexico.”

“We were, but you know how it goes.” Cesar shrugs. “Another day, another case.” He looks over towards the bar, where Jesse is sitting with Tracy and Ash, and a faint smile appears on his lips. “As long as we’re together, I don’t really care where we are, you know?”

Cas’ eyes drift back over to Dean. “Yes,” he says. “I think I’m beginning to understand.”

Cesar follows his gaze and his smile widens. “Come on. Introduce me properly.”

So Cas does. He and Cesar join Dean, Charlie, and Dorothy, then Jesse wanders over to stand with his husband, chiming in to their conversation about the potential existence of unicorns. Charlie is firmly in favour of the possibility, while the others aren’t so convinced. But before the discussion can get really heated, Ellen bangs her hand on the flat wooden top of the bar, silencing the room.

“Listen up,” she calls. “Dinner’s ready, so sit yourselves down wherever. This ain’t a wedding, there are no assigned seats.” She pauses, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Except you, Cas, and you, Dean. You’re sitting right in the middle.”

Cas groans in exaggerated dismay while the others laugh. “But before we start, I want to say something else,” Ellen continues, her voice sobering. “It’s real good to see all of your faces here tonight. What we do, it ain’t easy. And more often than not, we don’t get much credit for it. Most of the time, we get nothing but pain.” She looks around the room, her face softening as her eyes pass over Jo, perched at the edge of the bar. “So we have to take the nights like this when we can, when we’re all here together, all of us misfits who somehow decided this was the place we would call home, or at least one of them. Because home isn’t just about the place, it’s about the people, and I know for a fact this wouldn’t be the Roadhouse without all of you tramping through here every few weeks, muddy boots and all.”

Cas swallows around the lump in his throat as Ellen turns to look at him once more. “So here’s to all of us, old friends and new. Now, let’s eat!”

“Finally!” someone calls out, and the spell is broken as noise fills the room once more.

Cas doesn’t think twice before striding across the room and catching Ellen in a fierce hug, feeling the strength of her in the way she returns the embrace. “I’m glad you’re back,” she murmurs against his shoulder.

Drawing back, he smiles at her. “So am I.” He’s surprised at how deeply he means it.

Dean is waiting for him at the center of the table, an empty spot beside him. Charlie is on his other side, and Jo in the place beside the empty seat. Cas makes his way over, pausing briefly to exchange hellos with Billie, Alex, and Max as he does. There are so many others he hasn’t yet had a chance to talk to, but he knows there will be time later. Unlike the last time he was here, he isn’t running away again at the first opportunity.

“How are you holding up?” he asks Dean as he slides into the spot beside him. “If it’s too much--”

“Cas.” Dean shakes his head, his eyes warm. “It’s fine. Everyone’s cool. It’s great.”

He reaches under the table and takes hold of Cas’ hand. “How about you?” He leans in closer so he won’t be overheard, and Cas shivers as his warm breath ghosts over his ear. “Are you good?”

Cas looks around the room, all the familiar faces lit up with the simple comfort of a shared meal and shared memories in the making. It’s strange, seeing everything from the centre of the table rather than the far end where he would normally seat himself. Strange, but kind of nice. He’s grown so accustomed to thinking of change as a negative thing, associating it with the darkness of his past, that he’s forgotten how untrue that really is. Just as the moon waxes and wanes, his life has changed and will continue to change both for better and for worse, and it’s the balance that makes it beautiful.

He turns back to Dean, who has disrupted his life and his carefully constructed routines in the best possible way, and smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Again, please make sure to check out [whichstiel's art post](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16163192) and leave some love for the gorgeous artwork!


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